


Schrödinger’s Knight

by slothy_girl



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Final Haikyuu Quest, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Dreams and Nightmares, It's a reincarnation au so i mean, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pining, Romance, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Sharing Clothes, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, obviously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 20:31:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 40,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8910949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slothy_girl/pseuds/slothy_girl
Summary: This is the fourth time in a week that Iwaizumi's woken up this way: lethargic and even more tired than when he went to bed, as if he didn’t actually get any sleep at all. These foggy nights feel different from his usual dreamless sleep, not quite normal. He has the vaguest idea that he is dreaming about something, but he just can’t remember what.Which is frustrating as hell.And when these dreamless nights turn into dreamless nightmares, that's when things start getting... weird.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been sitting on this monster since the end of August (and I wrote most of it in a week, like, you have no idea how proud I am of that), but because I wanted it super polished and I didn't want to worry too much about spoiling people for season 3, I have kept it on the down low.
> 
> Thank you so much to Jennifer and Esse (Esselle) for the betas! You both are more amazing than words can describe. This fic would have never happened without you! <3
> 
> So, here you go: my love letter to Iwaizumi and Iwaoi; also known as "How Many Tropes can I Realistically Fit In Here" haha! 
> 
> EDIT: So I've been making some minor edits over the last couple days, because I'm a perfectionist and also because I realized I didn't fix a very specific scene before posting that I only just noticed agh. It's not that big of a deal and it's only a few lines of dialogue, but I couldn't just leave it like that with good conscious. So yeah, make sure you heed your notes when editing, if you have any notes at all, my children!
> 
> EDIT #2: I fixed the glaringly obvious and grievous error that was poor Matsukawa's name. I'm sorry, my precious meme son, I'm so sorry.
> 
> Enjoy~

Hajime wakes up slowly. Vestiges of sleep stubbornly cling to him, making his mind fragmented, his limbs heavy. He heaves a sigh and flops onto his back. It takes a couple tries, but he’s eventually able to untangle himself enough from his sweat soaked blanket cocoon to grind the heels of his palms into his eyes. It doesn’t really help.

This is the fourth time in a week that he’s woken up this way: lethargic and even more tired than when he went to bed, as if he didn’t actually get any sleep at all.

The thing is, he can’t think of a time when he’s been such a restless sleeper; he’s always slept too hard and deeply to move much, and though he’s never been much of a morning person, something must have changed recently. He can’t put his finger on it. He tries to think back, to remember what he dreamed about that night, like maybe that will explain why he’s been waking up in such obvious distress, but comes up with nothing. Just like the last couple times.

These foggy nights feel different from his usual dreamless sleep, not quite normal. He has the vaguest idea that he _is_ dreaming about something, but he just can’t remember what.

Which is frustrating as hell.

Perhaps it’s the stress of his class exams, or the Spring High Tournament coming up next month, or the sealed envelopes that are accumulating in increasing number on his desk. Or something. Maybe he’s just coming down with some kind of illness?

Except when he gets sick, there’s usually prior warning, a sore throat or sneezing fits that leave Oikawa hounding him about his health one minute and avoiding him so he doesn’t get “contaminated, Iwa-chan—I can’t afford to get sick!” the next. Even then, illness has never felt like this. He’s drowning in a tub of hot molasses, so close to breaking the thick, viscous surface, but he can’t seem to no matter what he does. No amount of coffee or tea helps, just time, waiting it out. What’s even worse is this ache he gets on these mornings, like there’s a gaping hole in his chest and his insides have been scooped out, hollowed, a sensation he can’t shake no matter what he does for the rest of that day.

Hajime groans. It’s almost the end of the school week; he can do this.

But first, he has to get through the cultural festival this afternoon.

Shit.

With another sigh, he drags his body out of bed. His legs give out slightly, and he stumbles into his desk with a curse, leaning against it for support and rubbing his hand where that ridiculous ache seems to be focused. He turns off his alarm before it can go off, grateful for small mercies, and once he’s found his footing, Hajime strips his bed of the sweat soaked sheets and remakes it with clean linen. Hopefully, he won’t sweat through these ones tonight. They’re his last set, and he’s in desperate need to do laundry and won’t have time to do it until the day after tomorrow. He scowls, detesting laundry now more than ever.

Luckily, he’s managed to keep… whatever has been happening to him a secret from his parents, and as long as he acts normal, they shouldn’t catch on. He hates worrying them, especially when he thinks he can handle it.

And he does, think he can handle it that is. He’ll figure things out, he’s sure of it.

Mouth twisted in a frown, he showers and trudges through the rest of his morning routine. The skin between his eyebrows puckers with the impending headache he can already feel developing behind his eyes as he tightens his uniform tie into place and puts on his blazer. He hears the sound of his mother and father’s quiet conversation downstairs, the clank of pans grating like the sound of metal clashing against metal as his mother makes breakfast.

He shakes his head and makes his way downstairs.

 

 

 

“Don’t mind!”

Afternoon practice is in full swing: the gym buzzes with the near constant noise of shoes squeaking across the court, of the ball smacking flesh and voices calling out for another toss. Coach Irihata is drilling all of the players for all their worth. With the Miyagi Prefecture Qualifiers of the National Spring Tournament just around the corner, Hajime doesn’t expect any less.

The cultural festival a couple days ago went off without a hitch despite his shitty morning, and he’d completed his shift for the boys’ volleyball club without too much difficulty, coming out the champion for arm wrestling just the same as the year before (it was cool to see how some of the regulars from years prior had improved; he admits he’s a little proud of them for it). He’d hung around their booth afterwards, watching Oikawa play pattern games with the different students who came by and knocking a fist into the back of his head whenever he got too flirty and obnoxious with someone, usually a fan.

When the setter’s shift was done, Hajime grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him off to play some of the different games the other clubs and organizations had set up, energetic and content.

“What’s gotten into you, Iwa-chan?” Oikawa asked suspiciously, holding the little alien keychain Hajime had won him at the science club’s booth with the air of someone expecting it to be taken away.

“I’m just happy,” Hajime said with a shrug before tugging Oikawa to a booth that promised delicious potstickers.

The good vibes and fun of the event seems to have helped with whatever was wrong. He hasn’t suffered another one of those strange morning incidents since. He’s actually gotten a couple good nights of rest, despite Oikawa sending him texts at two in the morning to bother him. Maybe things have gone back to normal, whatever it was that was triggering them gone. Knowing his luck, this may not be the case, but a guy can hope.

“Chance ball!”

Hajime dives to reach the ball and slides across the floor. He heaves a deep breath, holds it, releases, then jumps back to his feet to the sound of “Nice receive, Iwaizumi-san!” His arms sting where the ball had made contact, and he savors it. He gets back into position.

Watari receives the ball on the other side of the net, and Yahaba tosses it up to Matsukawa.

The ball flies past Kindaichi’s block, and Kunimi manages to send the ball over towards Oikawa.

“Iwa-chan!”

He doesn’t even need to think about it, it’s instinctual: he runs up, jumps, and spikes the ball with as much power as he can get behind it. It hurdles diagonally over the net and across the court towards Kyoutani, who receives it poorly, grunting as the force of it sends him stumbling back. The ball hits the floor just outside the line.

Hajime shouts in victory and accepts the high fives from his underclassmen teammates. Hanamaki and Matsukawa grumble good naturedly on the other side of the net, while Watari and Yahaba exchange looks of awe and determination. Kyoutani looks vaguely homicidal, but Hajime’s starting to think that’s just his face the same way people think _he’s_ always mad when he’s not. He jolts when fingers jab into his side, and he whips his head around and growls, “I’ll kick your ass!”

Kindaichi grabs him up by the arms so he flails uselessly at Oikawa. And fuck, way to remind a guy he’s short.

“Iwaizumi-san!”

“Let me go, Kindaichi!”

“Please, calm down!”

“I’m going to kill him!”

The setter tuts and laughs, sticking out his tongue and hiding behind Kunimi when Hajime increases his efforts to get at the little shit. He can see Matsukawa and Hanamaki roll their eyes, humor lurking in the corners of their mouths.

Coach Irihata blows his whistle and calls for them to get back into position, voice tinged in amusement.

“I’ll get you for that, Oikawa. Watch your back.” Hajime huffs, bumping his shoulder hard against his captain’s.

Right before Kunimi serves, Oikawa brings Hajime in close by the sleeve of his practice shirt to whisper, “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

Since he grew up with Oikawa, he should know by now that Oikawa notices everything—well, everything except Hajime’s ridiculous, glaring feelings for him—so it shouldn’t surprise him that his friend had noticed how irritable he had been getting before. Any annoyance toward Oikawa drains away.

“Yeah,” he says, and they share a smirk.

He should have known the restful nights wouldn’t last though. In what universe, realistic or fictional, has the problem suddenly going away been a sign that it’s been fixed, especially when no effort has been made to actually fix it? Hajime certainly can’t think of any examples.

In fact, it’s usually a sign that things are about to get worse.

With a pained shout, Hajime springs out of his bed, tripping on the sheets wrapped around his legs. He tumbles to the ground, pulse racing, his chest tight, and crawls until he’s backed up against the wall, hunching over and fumbling at his side where he’s been stabbed— _he’s been stabbed—_ blood gushing between his fingers, frantically glancing around for what could have done this, but the room is pitch black, a light swallowing abyss, and he can’t see anything, he can’t see—

“Hajime!” The light clicks on and his mother peers into his room, eyes squinted. “Are you alright?”

“Mom—Mom,” his voice comes out in a hitching whisper.

“What? What’s wrong?” His mother already looks more alert, maternal instincts kicking in despite the rough awakening. She paces into the room until she’s crouched down in front of him and puts her hand on his arm, tugging it away to try and see his side, his side which is still _bleeding_ —

But there’s no blood there.

He carefully pushes her hands away and rips his shirt up, prodding anxiously at where the wound is—where it should be. But there’s no blood, not on his side, not his shirt or the floor, and a glance around the room reveals nothing to explain how he would have gotten it. Sweat trickles down his back, his shirt soaked through, trailing down his overheated skin. Ice shoots through his veins as he looks down at his side, unmarred, no wound in sight. Just the birthmark he’s always had.

He must have made some sort of noise or face because his mother reaches up and takes his head in her hands, cupping his cheeks and lightly shaking him.

“Hajime, are you okay? Are you hurt?”

It takes him a second, but he clears his throat, takes a deep breath. “No, no, I’m fine. Sorry for worrying you. Just a nightmare.”

It’s like he’s gone numb. He can’t feel anything. The wound had felt so _real_ , fresh and oozing, the blood slick on his skin, on his fingers as he tried to stem the flow with his hand. It can’t have all been a dream, could it? Let alone a dream he doesn’t even remember? What’s going on?

She looks at him one last time before pulling him into a hug, the both of them bent into each other as they sit on the floor. “Oh honey, I can’t even remember the last time you had a nightmare. Must have been a bad one.”

“Yeah.” Hajime buries his face in her shoulder, a little kid again, needing his mother’s reassurance despite the height he now has on her. He breathes in the floral scent that clings to her nightgown, a scent that is ingrained in his earliest memories, and lets it ground him.

 

 

 

“Iwa-chan!”

Hajime jolts, hitting his knee against the underside of his desk; the pencil he’s holding snaps under the pressure of his grip.

“Oi, dumbass—it’s rude to sneak up on people.” He says, flat and slightly off, a pale imitation of his usual annoyed voice. Hanamaki and Matsukawa’s nearby conversation tapers off slightly, and Hajime can tell they’ve started eavesdropping, having probably caught the weird catch in his voice. Damn it.

Oikawa blinks innocently down at him for a second, fingers lightly tapping on Hajime’s desk, and then his expression shifts into one more serious, his brown eyes turning intense as he scrutinizes him. He leans towards him.

“You haven’t been sleeping again,” he whispers just loud enough for Hajime to hear, obviously aware of their little audience. Hajime purses his lips and looks away. He doesn’t want to talk about it, not yet, not before he knows what’s going on, and even if he did, he doesn’t really know where to start or _how_ to explain it without coming off as childish or crazy. Because what if it is just some weird mix of stress and nightmares? What if he’s making a big deal out of this for nothing?

Except it’s not for nothing.

He hadn’t been able to get back to sleep after he scared his mother a few nights ago, so he’d just lied there, staring at his ceiling until his alarm went off. He’d woken up feeling half-dead and groggy two of those days, and this morning, he’d leapt out of bed in a panic, trying to find his sword because he had to defend… someone—except he doesn’t own, has never owned a sword? He’s being tugged in two different directions, to two extremes of a spectrum he is only just learning to understand through unfortunate experience. And what’s worse is there’s something nagging at him, right at the edges of his consciousness in those moments when he first wakes up, a thread tugging on him, like it’s trying to get him to go somewhere or tell him something, and every morning it gets stronger. At this point, he just can’t make sense of it once he’s fully come to.

He managed to catch a much needed nap during one of his and Oikawa’s movie nights, the setter suspiciously quiet and contemplative when he’s normally loud and flailing. He endures Oikawa’s gentle mocking since “Only old people go to sleep at six, Iwa-chan” and doesn’t comment on the elegant fingers coiled tight around his ankle. Despite this, he’s almost fallen asleep in two of his classes today, and a headache pounds at the base of his skull. The yawning ache in his chest has become near constant.

Hajime’s been trying to keep up a front for the team during practices, and he’s been able to beat Kyoutani at every physical challenge the blonde has issued these past couple days (though there were a few times he was worried he might not, winning by the skin of his teeth and sheer determination), but it won’t take much longer for any of them to notice something off, if they haven’t already. It’s just that this is all starting to affect him in very real and potentially dangerous ways. There’s a reason why he pesters Oikawa to take care of himself and sleep the way he’s supposed to, after all, instead of analyzing the tapes from other schools’ volleyball teams or practicing into the night. People can die of sleep deprivation, and though he’s not there yet, if things don’t change, he might end up there. And even he admits the prospect is vaguely terrifying, more so because he’s never had problems like this before in his life.

He doesn’t want to think about what might happen if it comes to that though. There has to be some rhyme or reason to all of this, and while his internet searches of all of his ridiculous symptoms has yielded few compatible results, Hajime’s going to find out what it is.

Somehow…

Until then, he’s just going to try and wait it out.

Because even though he admits that he’s a bit (more than a bit) scared of whatever is happening to him, even more so because he doesn’t _understand_ why it’s happening, some part of him doesn’t want anyone to know. In part, perhaps, because he doesn’t want anyone to worry, but also because, irrationally (and he knows this. Man, does he), this all feels too personal to share, leaves him feeling vulnerable in so many different ways…

The two stare at each other. A moment later, Oikawa’s face changes again, he’s going to leave it alone for now then, and he’s smiling. “Now, don’t go overworking yourself, Iwa-chan! That would be hypocritical.” One hand poses as a peace sign, the other tightly gripping Hajime’s shoulder, a contradiction to the casual cheerfulness of his tone. “No wonder Iwa-chan can’t get any dates!”

Beside them, Hanamaki and Matsukawa exchange unreadable looks before returning fully to their conversation.

Relieved, Hajime doesn’t even need to muster up any sort of motivation to grab the arm on his shoulder and squeeze, wrapping his other arm around Oikawa’s neck to yank him in and ruffle his hair. The setter protests, trying to get free as Hajime taunts, “What was that, Idiotkawa? You’re a hypocrite?”

“Ah! Mean, Iwa-chan!”

And for a second, he feels a little more normal.

 

 

 

That evening, Hajime bids his parents an early night, still riding the good mood from earlier and tentatively hoping that it carries into his sleep. It’s a long shot, but at this point he’ll take anything.

He brushes his teeth and gets ready for bed, changing into sweatpants, hesitating over one of his last clean sleep shirts. It’s like he’s always doing laundry in whatever free time he has these days, (well, what free time isn’t dedicated to homework and hanging out with Oikawa and volleyball), trying to keep up with the amount of sheets and pajamas he’s been going through with some grudging success. He can tell his parents are starting to get a little worried, but his excuses of stress seems to have placated them for now.

Hajime scrubs a hand over his face and closes his shirt drawer, instead opening the one Oikawa had claimed years ago. A pang of affection rushes through him, thinking back to when they were kids and everything was a lot simpler. They were rarely ever apart, having sleepovers practically every other day during the breaks between school years. At some point in all of that, with strawberry jam smeared down his front, Oikawa had proclaimed, “That’s it! Iwa-chan, empty one of your drawers! I’ll be right back.” And he ran out of the room.

Hajime grumbled about bossy idiots, but he did as he was told, just like he always did. He really needed to learn how to say no to the guy; he’s spoiled already. He never really would learn how to, though at least the idiot hadn’t caught on to this fact.

By the time it was empty, the contents dumped haphazardly into other random drawers, Oikawa had returned from his house down the street, carrying a backpack stuffed full to the brim. He upended it into the drawer, rearranging the clothes as they tumbled out.

“There! Now, I don’t need to keep packing an overnight bag.” He smiled cheerfully, tugging on a clean shirt as if to demonstrate his genius.

Hajime’s brows drew together for a second before he says, “Well, if you get a drawer here, I want one at your house too.” They had quickly stuffed the bag full of Hajime’s clothes and rushed over to the Oikawa’s residence, laughing and pushing each other, and the rest is history.

The contents of the drawers have changed over the years, but they’ve always kept their respective drawers full, ready if there’s ever a need for a change of clothes.

If he brings something of Oikawa’s to bed with him, maybe it will help him the way Oikawa seemed to earlier.

Mind made up, he pulls on one of the most threadbare shirts he can find, the alien art so faded it looks plain and gray. The shirt is tight in the shoulders and a little long on him, but it smells like Oikawa, and he indulges himself a quick sniff of the spiced vanilla and laundry detergent that saturates the fabric, his face burning. He sighs.

That idiot still wears some of _his_ clothes occasionally. He knows he does. He’d caught him wearing a pair of his old gym shorts just last week, the length of them making his long legs look ridiculous, yet strangely attractive. He’s got nothing to be embarrassed about.

Agh.

Hajime switches off the light and hops into bed. Humming some catchy k-pop song Oikawa had been playing that morning on their way to school, he beats his pillow into submission and closes his eyes.

When he wakes up the next morning feeling marginally better, a little more rested than he’s been in days, disappointment washes through him; honestly, he’d been hoping for more. He’s a little sluggish, like he’s been drugged. The ache is still there in his chest and he’s sweaty, but at least he’s not utterly soaked with it, and he didn’t wake up in a panic. There’s also a strange sort of soreness in his arms and legs and stomach, as if he’d just finished an intensive workout or been fighting someone. Whatever. He’ll take what he can get.

It isn’t until he rolls over though that he notices the sticky mess in his boxers.

With a groan of mortification, his face flaming, he forces himself up, strips the bed, and finally gets all of that backed up laundry taken care of.

 

 

 

Now, when he isn’t waking up more tired than ever or in a half-asleep panic, he’s doing so with come cooling in disgusting pools in his boxers, muscles sore in ways he can’t really explain the origin of. There’s no way in hell he’s actually moving enough or lifting anything in his sleep to explain it. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think he was actually having sex or something, but he knows he’s not. And they are nothing like any wet dreams he can remember having.

At this point, he doesn’t really know which kind of morning he’d prefer.

Beyond that, he’s started remembering… something when he wakes up. Not really images, but feelings, lasting impressions almost, kind of like that one awful nightmare.

One morning, he wakes up to phantom nails dragging down his back, leaving goosebumps and little lines of stinging pain as they go. When he checks his back in the mirror though, there’s nothing there.

Another, he comes to tired and _angry_ , irrationally so, a fire burning so strongly in his chest that the ache is consumed by it. Morning and afternoon practice are somewhat helpful in getting out some of the pent up aggression, especially when the university teams are invited in to play a practice game with them, but he can hardly talk to anyone without unintentionally lashing out, especially at Oikawa. And while the people who know him at least a little bit know to steer clear when he gets stormy, the setter just never knows when to stop. For all that Hajime cares for Oikawa, the teenager just can’t seem to stop himself from inserting himself into other people’s business, in picking at other people’s faults and insecurities. What starts as some tense banter quickly shifts into a spat, riling each other up in a continuous cycle because like hell either of them would back down. They’re too stubborn for that.

“C’mon you guys,” Hanamaki says, hands held up in a gesture of surrender. They ignore him. The light haired boy shares an exasperated look with Matsukawa, who sighs. Hajime can feel the eyes of their underclassmen teammates watching them, but he doesn’t care. At least the college players are already gone.

“Stop being such an ass, Iwa-chan. We all know it’s a cover for how much you care about what other people think!”

“Between the two of us, Trashykawa, you’re the one who cares the most!”

“Well, I’m not the one who abandoned his best friend because some other kids thought our friendship was weird!”

“No—you’re just the one who abandoned your values because some stupid people decided to open their giant mouths. You play at being evil, Oikawa, because it’s supposedly in your nature, but really you’re just scared! You could be an amazing king if you would just pull your head out of your ass.” There’s a pause, then he huffs, “And I already apologized for that years ago!”

“I’m not scared! That’s not—wait, what? What did you just say?” Oikawa’s face shifts, his eyes sharpening into dilated points.

“I said, you play at being fake, but you’d be a better captain if you’d—“

“That’s enough,” Coach Irihata cuts in, firm and serious. “The Miyagi Prefecture Qualifiers is a little over a week away, so pull yourselves together. Fifty suicides, both of you, for disrupting practice.”

Their teammates watch them for a second, eyes wide before they turn back to their own drills, muttering amongst themselves, occasionally throwing side-eyes when they think they’re in the clear (Like either of them couldn’t see them though, honestly. He’s glad they choose volleyball instead of a sport in need of more subtly).

The drills do little to help Hajime cool off. From the twisted look on Oikawa’s face, it doesn’t help him either.

By the time he goes to bed that night, his jaw hurts from how much he’d ground his teeth throughout the day, but the anger has finally faded away, leaving him with the notion that he’s been a shitty friend. He bites the bullet and sends Oikawa a text with a simple “sorry” because even though Oikawa is a little shit who said his fair share of stuff, dredging up the past like that, it was Hajime’s fault this time for starting it.

**Tooru:**

Don’t forget about our movie tomorrow (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

And that’s that.

The morning he wakes up to his own voice whispering “please,” broken and lost, seems to be a turning point, a flood gate opening and releasing a torrential onslaught Hajime just isn’t prepared for.

Now, he’s started zoning out during the day. It doesn’t seem directly connected to his sleeplessness, but Hajime’s sure it’s certainly is related to the cause of it. Classes, practice, it doesn’t matter. One minute, he’s focused, the next, time has passed that he can’t account for.

One such incident is a practice game that Vice-Coach Mizoguchi is overseeing that morning, analyzing possible weaknesses in the hope of working on them before the Qualifiers next week. Hajime watches Hanamaki receive a ball, tensing his muscles in preparation for doing everything is in his power to keep the ball from hitting the floor. He glances to the side, eye catching on a bird swooping near the gym window—then nothing. When he comes to, he’s sprawled on his back, face throbbing, staring blankly at the gym ceiling. His teammates are crowded around him with varying expressions on their faces, from panic to mocking smirks.

“Are you okay, Iwaizumi-san?” And that’s Kunimi.

“Iwaizumi-san! Does anything hurt?” Ah, Kindaichi.

“Way to go there, Iwaizumi.” Matsukawa.

“Oh, ew, his nose is bleeding.” Hanamaki.

“You’re not supposed to receive the ball with your face, Iwa-chan! You’re already ugly, you can’t afford to mess it up worse!”

He sits up, accepting the towel Watari offers to stem the blood from his nose with a murmured “thanks,” and rearranges his face into some semblance of his usual annoyed face as he gets to his feet. His teammates back off, wary after the fight they had a couple days ago and probably assuming he’s going to explode at Oikawa the way such a comment from their captain would incite, but Hajime honestly can’t gather up enough energy to do more than poke the setter hard in the chest, voice gruff. “Shut up, Oikawa.”

After a short silence, Vice-Coach Mizoguchi says, “Go get that cleaned up and checked out, Iwaizumi-san, then get back here when you can.”

Hajime nods with a muffled “Yes, sir” and walks out of the gym. The last thing he hears is someone wail, “What’s going on?!”

Fuck.

 

 

 

Oikawa corners him right before afternoon practice in the clubroom that day. How he managed to get him alone with so many nosy teammates is beyond him, but then again, Oikawa has always had some sort of weird power over people. Plus, his teammates appear to still be shaken from the mix of their fight and his lackluster response that morning. He can only hope that the excuses he dropped upon returning from the nurse were enough to smooth over the majority of their worries. Probably not by the way a few of them looked unconvinced. Most of them are too polite to actually say anything though, so the only ones he has to worry about are Matsukawa, Hanamaki, and, well.

Hajime has only just put on his practice shirt when Oikawa grabs one of his sleeves and begins the task of rolling them up for him.

For a few minutes, there’s only silence. Then, “Hajime,” he says quietly, no pomp or circumstance, no glitter or fake smiles. His expression is serious, concern lurking in the pinched corners of his eyes, the tightness of his mouth. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but whatever’s been throwing you off seems to be getting worse. I know I probably don’t say this enough, but I’m here for you. Whatever you need.”

Hajime stares at him, his heart stuttering, and he knows he’s blushing, can feel it in his ears, but he can’t help it. Oikawa isn’t much better, his cheeks stained pink, biting his lip as he feigns focus on the task at hand. Silence descends once more.

“All done.” Oikawa runs his hand down Hajime’s arm, squeezing his hand briefly before pulling away, a crooked smile on his red face. Hajime’s helpless to that look, finds himself smiling right along, and he can’t help but return the gesture with one of his own: a gentle touch to his captain’s side, an “I hear you loud and clear” and “I’m here for you too,” a movement he’s done a billion times, so fluid and natural that it must be written in his DNA.

He doesn’t know how long they stand there, grinning like idiots, but it’s times like this when he thinks his feelings might be reciprocated, that the affection he occasionally catches in Oikawa’s eyes is more than that of a childhood friend, that maybe the brown eyed teenager might want him in all the ways Hajime wants _him_.

 

 

 

By this point, Hajime’s sort of resigned himself to waking up in some form of discomfort; he’s got bed stripping and laundry down to a science, and he makes sure to drink even more water than necessary in an effort to keep hydrated through the night. He’s also never showered this much in his entire life, not that his hygiene was awful before (“You still stink,” the little Oikawa in his head replies with a giggle).

So when he wakes up that next morning, officially one week away from the Qualifiers, and all he feels is a little tired and not the least bit sweaty, if a bit overly warm, he’s simultaneously relieved and vaguely terrified that maybe he’d died sometime in the night.

Well, at least he’s ended up in a place that smells nice and familiar, like almonds and vanilla.

“Agh, stop squeezing me so hard, Iwa-chan, or I’ll explode.”

Hajime’s eyes snap open, tensing slightly, but he doesn’t bother trying to roll away. He’s woken up enough times like this growing up that he’s not too worried about being tangled up with Oikawa in bed, though it can certainly be said that this hasn’t happened in years. Not since they were twelve and Hajime was an idiot who let other people decide what was weird for a friendship and what wasn’t. Some things just stay with you though, he guesses.

It’s the fact that he’s fairly certain he fell asleep alone last night that confuses him though.

He draws away slowly, loosening his arms from the vice grip he has on Oikawa’s waist, and takes stock of the situation. Little plastic planets and stars glow dimly on the ceiling, and the morning sun slants through the shades onto the alien printed sheets Oikawa had sworn up and down, fourteen and with a mouth full of metal, that he’d gotten rid of years ago (please, like Hajime believed that load of bullshit). So, he’s in Oikawa’s room then. That’s what he thought.

Hajime untangles them further and sits up, but he stays close, his side pressing warm into the curve of Oikawa’s body, testing the extent to the almost foreign concept of a good night’s rest after almost a full month without. The ache that had become near constant is suspiciously absent.

“Mm, something wrong?” Oikawa slurs, still half asleep; he rubs the heel of one palm against his eye like a child, and oh, there’s a rush of fondness that Hajime can’t contain, so he runs his fingers through the setter’s fluffy bedhead until he’s practically purring, curling further around Hajime. His fingers drift from Oikawa’s hair to trace along the regal line of his jaw.

“No, everything’s fine… Better than fine, really.” He hums, tweaking his friend’s nose and drawing a sleepy smile from him; half-asleep Oikawa is one of his favorites. “Just one question though. How did I get here?”

 

 

 

Sleepwalking. He’s started sleepwalking, and apparently, his subconscious self has only one destination in mind every time: Oikawa. No matter how hard he tries, from locking his room door to prying a promise out of Oikawa to lock him out of his house (Oikawa laughs, “But Iwa-chan, you’re so cute in the morning!”), he keeps ending up in Oikawa’s bed, wrapped around the brunette so tightly it’s hard to tell whose limbs are whose.

Regardless of his initial reluctance though, he’s found that he’s finally sleeping the way he used to, heavy and deep, dreamless, waking up refreshed and more energetic than he’s felt for a long time. And it shows during practice when he spikes a ball particularly hard, harder than he’s been able to muster recently, and he can stay awake in class again.

At a certain point, it becomes this half subconscious occurrence, half self-defensive habit where some nights, he will find any reason to stick around, to sleepover, using the clothes he had stashed in one of Oikawa’s drawers and the toothbrush he kept in the cup next to Oikawa’s. He even starts making excuses to get Oikawa to stay over at _his_ house, much to his parents obvious amusement (like they can talk though; they can’t hide their affection for Oikawa either). And the two of them have never been ones to beat around the bush, not really, so they don’t often hesitate to meet in the middle of his or Oikawa’s bed, holding hands like when they were children on the nights it’s too warm to be pressed up close.

On the nights he can’t find a good enough excuse, he sometimes ends up there anyway by sleepwalking. And it’s not a bad way to wake up, with Oikawa draped over him, clinging to him like a limpet.

It doesn’t happen every night though, and he pays for the few nights he doesn’t with what he had experienced before: lethargy or panic or a mix of the two. He’s still losing time during the day too, though it hasn’t led to another injury at least, just worried looks and people repeating themselves a lot. He’s lucky his friends and teammates are taking all of this in stride when they could easily turn everything into a big, dramatic production. Grateful for that and for them, he accepts how touchy his team has gotten with him, hands clasping his arm or patting him on the back, offers of water or a towel when he comes back to himself, overprotective glances. They’re simultaneously trusting him not to hurt himself, pushing him to his limits in practice (he’d kick their asses if they didn’t) and handling him with kid gloves (which is kind of annoying, but oh well, he can understand. He’d probably be the same way if it was one of them).

And the thing is, Oikawa never complains. Well, he complains about how “Iwa-chan’s feet are ice—keep them away!” and “you Neanderthal, you snore like a chainsaw,” but he never turns Hajime away. He can only be thankful that the weird wet dreams seem to have more or less stopped, only occurring on the nights he’s alone, or else he would die of mortification. If he’s started jerking off earlier in the day as a precaution every night, just in case, well, no one knows but him.

Their parents also appear to be taking it in stride, probably attributing their sudden return to the codependence of their childhood to the anxiety over the Qualifiers and the prospect of university that waits just beyond that.

Sure, he and Oikawa are worried about both of those things, but as far as they’re concerned, they’re taking it one step at a time. First they’ll deal with the tournament: the level of intensity during practice has increased exponentially. They’re still on the court hours after practice has officially ended, their teammates practicing beside them in varying configurations. Of course, he tries to keep them within reasonable hours, calling it a night at eight, ushering sleepy underclassman out and dragging Oikawa home with a hand on his wrist so he can’t keep practicing. He can’t always stop him and he can’t keep him from staying up late to analyze team videos on the nights he isn’t there, but so far, it’s been okay. All their sweat and efforts will be worth it, and they will move on to the end, will face Ushijima and Shiratorizawa and they will beat them, once and for all.

They’ll deal with university later.


	2. Chapter 2

The morning of the Miyagi Prefecture Qualifiers begins with Hajime kicking Oikawa out of his bed.

He’d asked the setter to stay over that night instead of leaving it to chance (he didn’t want to risk getting an awful night’s rest when this Tournament is so important), and while he feels pretty great, he can already tell that Oikawa is stressing out. The fact that he’s probably been out of bed for an hour already is evidence enough, but the thin lines by his eyes give him away even as he uses one of his most fake and obnoxious voices, pestering him to “come on, Iwa-chan! The tournament is today! We can’t be late! We don’t want to be bad examples for our precious underclassmen!” That’s when he kicks the little shit off the bed.

“I can’t deal with your face right now, Trashykawa. How are you such a morning person?” Hajime groans, burying his face into his pillow. It’s interesting how quickly someone’s scent becomes ingrained in cloth, he thinks, breathing in deeply.

“What are you talking about? My face is a gift, you’re lucky to be graced with my presence! And—wait, are you smelling that pillow?”

His face heats up and he jerks his head up, shouting, “No!”

Agh, might as well have said yes.

Oikawa laughs, startled and full blown and real, obnoxious in its loudness, ridiculous in the way he ends up snorting because he’s an idiot who tries to breathe through his nose. It’s as stupidly adorable as it was when they were ten. Dammit.

“Dammit, Shittykawa!” he says and jumps off the bed, reaching for the brown eyed teen. Oikawa shrieks, hands up, but he isn’t able to keep Hajime from tackling him down and pinning him. Oikawa struggles to get away, but he can tell it’s halfhearted; if the setter really wanted to get away, while he still probably wouldn’t be able to get free, he’d be a fair sight better than he is now, wiggling around and kicking his feet. He’s such a child.

“No—Iwa-chan, don’t! You’ll mess up my hair!”

“Any last words?” he asks.

Oikawa stops moving, face resigned and sullen, and says, “Iwa-chan is a brute who is just jealous that he can’t be as popular as his Oikawa-san.”

With that, Hajime digs his fingers into Oikawa’s sides, right in the ribs where he’s the most sensitive. Immediately, Oikawa starts struggling again, laughing and shouting protests, his hands grasping desperately at his arms, his shoulders, anywhere he can reach. He makes sure to tickle the captain right up until the point where he’s wheezing, almost crying from it, before he stops. Then, with careful hands, he grabs Oikawa by the face, squishes his cheeks a bit and says, “Don’t worry so much, Tooru.”

Wide-eyed and flushed, Oikawa stares at him for a second before—

“Hajime! Tooru-kun! Don’t forget you need to be at the school by eight or you’ll miss the bus to the tournament!” Hajime’s mother calls up the stairs, her voice exasperated and fond.

“Alright then.” He stands up, brushes himself off and offers a hand to help Oikawa up. His friend takes it, uses it as a chance to haul Hajime in close so he can whisper in his ear, breathless and suddenly sharp, lethal in its intensity, “We’re going to beat them. I can feel it.”

“Of course.” Like there was ever any doubt.

Oikawa moves to turn away and walk down stairs, to charm Hajime’s parents with compliments like always, and as he does so, Hajime catches his eye. And for a split second, so small and seemingly insignificant, Oikawa’s eyes flash red.

What the fuck?

 

 

 

Okay, so either he’s finally going crazy because of all of the strange shit he’s been going through in the past month or it was all just a trick of the light.

Or he’s going crazy.

All he knows at this point is that he can tell he’s starting to weird Oikawa out with all his staring because, while he likes to think he’s been covert in his attempts to try and catch that bizarre flash of color again, he’s not actually very good at being subtle sometimes… most times. But whatever. He’s yet to see it again since they left his room. The setter’s eyes have stayed the same brown they’ve always been, from the walk to Aoba Johsai to the bus ride to the Sendai City Gymnasium, right up until their game against Dewaichi High School.

“I believe in all of you,” Oikawa says right before they step out on the court, and though his eyes don’t turn red, they’re just as intense as they had been before.

Despite Dewaichi’s fairly solid game play, they beat them two sets to none. It’s nothing like a game of volleyball against a relatively decent opponent to get the blood flowing, to rejuvenate Hajime in a way very little else can. They stick around Sendai Gym long enough to find out that Karasuno won their first match and that Seijoh will be going up against Date Tech in the next round. Their team piles onto the bus, exhausted but shouting in excitement with the prospect of tomorrow, filled to the brim with that kind of palpable energy only victory can bring.

Hajime shares a look of fondness with Oikawa when the noise devolves into quiet murmurings and snores half way back to campus. The captain shrugs and rolls his eyes, smile small and content, before leaning his forehead against Hajime’s shoulder with a sigh. Unable to stifle it, Hajime hides his grin behind a hand, head twisted towards the window to watch the scenery go by. He hasn’t forgotten about that weird trick of the light, but as far as he’s concerned, it’s nothing to worry about.

Things are finally looking up.

They get back to Sendai Gym bright and early the next day, their excitement more muted in the morning light. They’re pointed toward one of the practice courts set aside to keep players warmed up between games. With Date Tech being their next opponent, it wouldn’t do to not warm up efficiently.

He listens to Oikawa’s commentary on the situation Karasuno’s team has found itself in with half an ear as they pass a ball between them, how the captain, Sawamura-san, had taken a nasty hit in their game against Wakutani South High School and what it could mean for the team, how it could break them if they let it. Hajime has some doubts that that will happen though. Karasuno has already played and won against three other schools, and even though Seijoh beat them in the Interhigh-Preliminaries, they hadn’t gone down without a fight once they were able to get it together. Their resolve must be stronger than ever. A felled captain shouldn’t spell utter destruction. Oikawa probably knows this too.

“But I guess we’ll just need to wait until after our game to find out,” Oikawa says lightly, tossing the ball back into the bin. He throws an arm around Hajime’s shoulders once they’ve grabbed up their stuff, and they gather their teammates and head over to their assigned court.

Both teams are in top form, and even with a new setter, Date Tech’s defense is certainly as great as it’s purported to be. When Oikawa pulls a toss back to try and make it easier on Hajime to score over the Iron Wall, Hajime can’t say he’s not surprised because with any other person, it would probably be the best play. He’s not like everyone else though, _they’re_ not like everyone else, and Oikawa shouldn’t ever forget that.

He grabs Oikawa by the wrist.

“Do what we usually do. Let me take this challenge.” Because that’s his job, that’s what he does. He’s Seijoh’s ace, but more importantly, he’s _Oikawa’s_ ace, his pillar, his support, and he will tear down this Wall mortar by mortar for him if he has to. Oikawa stares at him, caught off guard, at being found out or something else, Hajime doesn’t know, but he smiles, flustered, and salutes in acknowledgment.

Hajime blasts through the Iron Wall of Dateko, taking advantage of the first-year setter’s weak resolve. And with that, the game is over.

Immediately, his teammates descend upon him. Hanamaki and Matsukawa grab him by the neck of his jersey and ruffle his hair while a few underclassmen pat him on the back, converging on him in a great enveloping embrace until he can’t tell whose hands are whose, and all he can do is laugh, victory flowing in his veins. He glances back at his captain, who is still standing by the net, and nods at him when he catches his eye. For a second, Oikawa looks contemplative, his brows furrowed, a weird absent smile on his face. At Hajime’s questioning look though, he schools it into one of fond annoyance and walks over to him.

“Guess even you still have things to teach me, Iwa-chan.” He says, hands on his hips.

Hajime smirks at him.

They’ve won the game in two sets. He’s glad for it, especially considering they have a game almost immediately after. The more energy they waste, the worse off they’ll be against their next opponent. It wouldn’t do for them to go into the next game anything but fighting and strong.

They don’t really have long to celebrate their win (though Hajime makes sure to high-five all of the underclassmen, even the reluctant Kyoutani, their happiness infectious) before they’re being ushered onto another court to get ready for their game against Karasuno. And man, even though Hajime hadn’t expected them to be grounded by Sawamura-san’s injury, he’s still vaguely shocked to be playing against them again so soon after the Interhigh-Prelims. Just going by how vocal and energized they are, you wouldn’t be able to tell that they had already played a long, hard game that day.

Already, he can see the way Oikawa’s focus is intensifying, the setter glancing at Kageyama every once in a while. Hajime watches as a ball bounces from Karasuno’s side to their’s, and as Oikawa stoops to pick it up, Kageyama grabs it too. He’s pretty sure he’s not the only one who notices the sparks flying when the two setters make eye, and he’s definitely not the only one who sighs when the two of them devolve into fighting over it. Oikawa lets the ball go so Kageyama stumbles back, and he throws his head back and laughs, obnoxious and annoying as hell, and how is Oikawa seriously a third year (a sentiment Hanamaki asks Hajime with a roll of his eyes)?

Having had enough, Hajime pitches the volleyball he’s holding at the back of Oikawa’s head, taking satisfaction when it finds its mark.

And when they finally go to step onto the court, the game about to begin, Hajime shares a nod with Hanamaki and Matsukawa.

“I believe in—”

In unison, the three declare, “We believe in you, Captain!”

Of course, they can’t keep things completely serious, so after a brief silence where Oikawa stares at them, they make sure to grab the setter by the shoulder and tell him what food he will be buying them if he fucks up his first serve, encouraging their underclassmen to do the same. And though Oikawa’s face is twisted into one of annoyance, Hajime can see the affection in his eyes.

He’ll be okay, Hajime thinks.

The game commences, and right away, Hajime can tell Karasuno is different from when they last played together. The team seems more cohesive, their attacks better planned and executed more seamlessly. A few of their plays catch even Oikawa off guard. Luckily, his team is smart, and they quickly figure out ways to counter or at least lessen the blow of certain kinds of attacks, especially Number 10’s spikes (thank fuck for Matsukawa).

Unfortunately, they fuck up their fair share of plays, and Karasuno takes advantage of it, so the first set is a loss. Hajime thinks they come out stronger for it though in the second set. Hajime does his best to receive as many balls as he can, enjoying the satisfaction it gives him to do so. The rest of his team are strategizing and taking advantage of openings when they can, but Karasuno fights them on every point, and for a second, it looks like they might lose the second set too. Then Coach Irihata sends in Kyoutani. Hajime can tell the blonde’s pumped up underneath the homicidal expression on his face, a loose cannon, their wild card, and a double edged sword.

The rhythm of the team changes, this discordant element in what is usually a fine tuned symphony, but they score some much needed points. Hajime does his best to rein him in when he has to.

Karasuno sends in a pinch server, the one who flopped in Interhigh-Prelims. They should have expected him to have improved considering how different the rest of the team is. The gap between points lessen with every serve, Seijoh’s lead dwindling to nothing as everyone tries to adjust to Number 12’s float serve. Eventually they do, and they’re able to steal the ball back.

They win the second set.

The third set shows a similar pattern of neck to neck point making, everyone doing their best, pulling out all the stops, but he can tell that both sides are fighting hard through the exhaustion. It’s difficult for anyone to keep giving and giving in a game when it’s drawing out absurdly long like this one seems to. Sweat runs down everyone’s faces, their skins slick with it no matter how many times they all wipe their faces.

Halfway through the set, Oikawa surprises him. Karasuno’s Number 10 has finally made his move, aided by Kageyama’s toss, and when Oikawa admits that the two continue to shock him in how good they are, Hajime thinks he’s going to have to tell him off again, because Oikawa is an amazing setter and volleyball player in his own right, and why won’t he fucking get that through his thick skull? He turns to look at him, glaring, but instead of spouting some more crap about their talent, the setter throws back the words Hajime had said to him years ago when they went to Kitagawa Daiichi.

“A volleyball team with six strong players is stronger.” There’s a confident smile on his face, his eyes clear and focused, and in that moment, Hajime swears his heart skips a beat and he could just kiss the utter idiot, dammit.

“If you understand that, then good,” he says firmly, turning back to face the net.

They’re getting close to the end, both sides frantically trying to get ahead and win. They manage to reach match point first, but Karasuno is quick to take back the lead. The final timeout is called, and when the teams walk back onto the court, the tension in the air is palpable, thick with exhaustion and a desperateness from both sides. It makes Hajime think of that moment right before a battle. His skin is buzzing with nerves and adrenaline—so much is riding on this next play, it could make or break Seijoh’s chance to move on, ruin their chances of facing Shiratorizawa and that damn Ushijima, of beating them finally, after all these years.

Karasuno’s Number 2 serves and Hajime stumbles to receive it. He growls in frustration, knows the setter had done it on purpose to put him off balance, but he quickly gets back into position in time for Hanamaki to fumble the ball too far to the right. Oikawa makes eye contact and points directly to him, his eyes bleeding red and scorching, his Captain, his King calling on him to take the shot, and it can’t be a trick of the light this time, but he can’t worry about that now, can’t worry about the setter crashing into the table off court either. He just firms his resolve and jumps, his hand slamming into the ball, perfect and on point despite being tossed clear across the court.

Karasuno receives it and their ace sends it hurtling back over the net. Watari dives for it, and for a second it’s going to fall, but Kyoutani is there and saves it, though it goes over the net enough for Kageyama to spike it. Kindaichi blocks with a shout, and the ball bounces off Number 2’s face. Hajime can see Number 10 backing up, he’s going to be the one to take the next shot, Hajime knows it, and hopefully they’ll be able to stop it. He grabs Kindaichi by the shirt and together with Kyoutani they jump to block—

And in that second when Number 10 jumps and hits the ball, Hajime swears he sees the shadow of a cape fluttering behind him, a sword strapped at his side. The pit of his stomach drops out. He blinks, and it’s gone.

The ball slams off Oikawa’s arms, landing off court.

That’s it.

 

 

 

His eyes are swollen, his nose all clogged up and for once the ache in his chest is different than that lost, hollow twinge he’s had to deal with for most mornings in the past month. He’d stopped crying ages ago, but even though he always messes with Oikawa, calling him an ugly crier even as he takes out tissues for the setter to blow his nose into, whenever Hajime cries, it takes forever for his face to go back to normal, for the blood in his cheeks to drain away, for his eyes to stop feeling scratchy and too big for their sockets. He’s huddling under one of his softest comforters, the television on and muted, the only light flickering in the dark room. His mind is a jumbled mess, still trying to process the game they’d lost earlier that day.

He doesn’t know what he’d have done if Oikawa, Hanamaki, and Matsukawa hadn’t pulled him out of his head at the end there. He still thinks he could have done better as the ace, that he should have taken a better shot, one Karasuno couldn’t pick up the way they had, but maybe he should take his own advice and accept that he’s a pretty damn good ace, that he’s good at what he does, and he did his best during that game. While Coach Irihata was right that he regretted some of his decisions during the game (he’s sure most of his teammates have some too), on the whole, he thinks they did the best they could have done. Karasuno came out on top this time, but from the mumblings of his underclassmen on the bus back to campus, Seijoh has all the motivation it needs to improve and beat Karasuno the next time they face off.

And then there were those weird things he’d seen.

At this point, he’s pretty sure those visions aren’t some kind of trick of the light. He also doesn’t think he’s gone crazy, but he can’t really figure out what’s going on either, which is as equally frustrating as it is scary. He still can’t bring himself to drag anyone else into it though, a weird feeling nagging at him to keep it to himself. Maybe if he waits it out a little longer, it’ll explain itself.

Behind him, Oikawa burrows further into Hajime’s back and sniffles, his arms tightening around him. He’d been so strong, Hajime thinks, had managed to keep the tears at bay until he was giving his captain speech to his underclassmen, his last one for Seijoh. By the end of it, everyone had been crying and laughing somewhat hysterically because even though they were sad for the loss, both of the Tournament and of their upperclassmen, Oikawa has a way of inspiring happiness in the people he cares about just through words. The group hug they’d instigated had left everyone in slightly higher spirits.

“Hey,” Hajime mutters hoarsely. He tugs on a couple of Oikawa’s fingers where they’re clenched in his hoodie. “Don’t get snot all over my sweatshirt, dumbass.”

Oikawa mumbles something but it’s muffled by fabric, incoherent.

“What was that?”

“What if we go to different universities?”

His stomach swoops and suddenly he can’t breathe. He’d started going through all of the envelopes on his desk the week before; his grades aren’t anything to sneeze at, so he’s managed to be accepted to most of the schools he had applied to. While he has a pretty good idea of where he wants to go, he’s also sure that it’s a school that Oikawa wouldn’t give much thought to attending.

And he knows he shouldn’t concern himself with where Oikawa wants to go to school, that they had agreed months ago to apply to whatever schools they wanted to without worrying about the other, keeping their choices a secret until after the Qualifiers as neither of them wanted to be an excuse for the other to not pursue his dream school, but Hajime can’t help but unconsciously try to account for Oikawa anyway. Agreement or not, now that the time has finally come, he doesn’t think either of them knew just how crushing it might be that they don’t end up going to school together. At least, Hajime certainly didn’t.

But now, with Oikawa so close, practically molded to Hajime’s back, it truly hits him, the fact that the two of them will likely be separated in a way he can’t ever remember them being before. To his knowledge, the longest they have gone from seeing each other is a week because once, when they were five, Oikawa’s family decided to take an extended vacation.

Hajime remembers that week as being one of the most boring ones of his life, and no matter how many bugs he caught or monster movies he watched, he still couldn’t pull himself out of the dejected mood he’d fallen into while his friend was gone. When Oikawa returned, he had tried to play it off, like he hadn’t missed his best friend, hadn’t been wishing for his return only minutes after he’d left, all to cover up how relieved he felt to be with him again. Except all that did was make Oikawa cry, which made him feel like dirt. So, he’d hugged his friend and whispered, “I missed you.”

Then he’d burst into tears and the both of them cried into the other’s shoulder, clutching at each other, much to their parents amusement.

And this, university, would mean spending time apart, a lot longer than a week or two. They would no longer be a two second walk away from each other; they probably won’t see each other every day. They might end up several hours away, where they can only visit on the rare, odd weekend since train tickets can run on the expensive side. Video calls just won’t be the same as the real deal.

Maybe they’ll even drift apart.

He swallows heavily around the lump in his throat and powers through that initial panic, rubs his trembling fingers over the setter’s knuckles. “Then we’ll be at different universities. It’s not a big deal.”

“Hajime.” Oikawa tugs on him until he rolls over so they can look at each other. Their faces are inches away, and this close, Hajime can see the strange flecks of gold in Oikawa’s brown eyes. He watches as his friend’s eyes flutter, the only red in them from all the crying he’s been doing today, before he asks, “Do you know where you’re going?”

Hajime nods, their noses brushing slightly with the movement. Judging by the way Oikawa’s expression collapses in on itself into a blank façade, some unconscious tick in his face (one Oikawa’s likely memorized, just as Hajime’s memorized many of his) must have given away enough to tell the setter his decision. Oikawa’s chest expands against his as the setter draws in a deep breath, trailing his hand up Hajime’s arm and neck to rest lightly on his cheek, goosebumps tingling in its wake. Voice husky, he says, “Let’s talk more about this later.”

“Oikawa—“

“Goodnight, Iwa-chan.” He rolls over to face the wall, conversation over. For a moment, Hajime wants to pursue it, to force Oikawa to face him again so they can talk it out, get it over with. It won’t be the end of the world, them going to different schools; Hajime won’t let it be. He can’t. But he can tell Oikawa’s tired and his entire body is taut, probably anticipating Hajime trying to force the issue. So he doesn’t say anything at all, just scoots into the curve of his body until they’re pressed close again, their legs tangled together. He presses his nose into the curls at the base of his neck and murmurs a quiet “Goodnight, Tooru.”

Oikawa’s shoulders slump, heavy with exhaustion as much as it is with defeat, temporary as it is because if Oikawa is anything, he’s a fighter with a pride that won’t let him give up (worthless pride, his ass. Fuck you very much, Ushijima).

It takes awhile, but Hajime is eventually able to fall asleep long after Oikawa’s dropped off, lulled by his friend’s even breathing and the smell of spiced vanilla. And when he wakes up the next morning, alone and vaguely lethargic, his chest hollow, he sighs and rolls out of bed. He should have expected Oikawa to do that, especially after everything yesterday.

But whatever, he frowns as he gets dressed. Hajime’s pretty sure he knows where Oikawa has gone. It won’t take all that long to find him.

And it doesn’t. He spots his friend sitting in the stands of Sendai Gym, looking soft and cuddle-y in a cardigan and his glasses. He wishes Oikawa wore his glasses more often, he thinks, looking at him appreciatively. It makes him look more like the kid with braces that Hajime remembers, back before he learned how to hide everything he was actually feeling behind an obnoxious mask.

“I thought I’d find you here,” Hajime says once he’s close enough for Oikawa to hear. The setter jumps and whips around, his eyes wide and mouth parted.

“Iwa-chan!”

“I thought you said you weren’t going to come. Should have waited for me, Shittykawa.” Hajime sits down beside him and keeps his eyes focused on the courts below. Everything is already set up, and he can see both Karasuno and Shiratorizawa are already playing. The gym is ablaze with noise, the audience cheering and shouting for the two teams. He glances at Karasuno’s Number 10, but whatever had happened in the game yesterday isn’t happening now.

He can feel Oikawa’s questioning gaze on him, but he doesn’t look at him.

A moment of silence passes, then Oikawa turns to face the court, the noise of the ball hitting skin, the squeak of shoes echoing even above the cheers of the audience, and says, “It’s the final set.” He smirks. “Impeccable timing as always, Iwa-chan.”

Hajime punches Oikawa in the arm in response, mouth quirked in a faint smile when the brunette whines in protest. “We’ll be okay,” he says, catching his eye.

Oikawa blinks, rubbing at his arm, and then he looks away, trying to hide his pleased smile. Warmth spreads through Hajime’s chest at the sight and he has to look away too, sure his affection for the setter is written on his face. There’s still some strain in the line of Oikawa’s shoulders, but apparently he said the right thing, a step in the right direction.

“Agh. No matter who wins, I’m gonna be pissed. I hope both of them lose,” Oikawa suddenly grumbles.

“You’re such an asshole,” Hajime snorts and shakes his head, whatever tension between them broken.

 

 

 

He still can’t believe Karasuno won. Shiratorizawa had been essentially undefeatable for years, on such a high level power wise that teams outside of the prefecture and college teams had to be invited in for practice, so he’s heard. He’s caught somewhere between being pissed that Seijoh, that Oikawa, wasn’t the one to steal victory away from Shiratorizawa and being vindictively pleased that someone finally beat them.

The train they’re on veers slightly to the right, jerking him from his thoughts, the momentum sending him into Oikawa. He grips the support handle tighter and mutters an apology, vaguely wishing there were still seats open they could take, but it doesn’t seem to reach Oikawa wherever he is in his head, his expression blank, his eyes vacant. The evening sun casts shadows into the hollows of his cheeks, makes the purple circles under his eyes seem darker. He looks unbelievably distant, Hajime thinks, untouchable, out of reach even though he’s right here. The setter hadn’t said much after he’d analyzed the last, winning play of the game and declared that they were going home, pushing Hajime along in front of him.

Mouth pursed tight, he purposefully shoves into Oikawa with his shoulder, almost knocking him over with the force of it. He throws out an arm to steady him and doesn’t move away even though they’re too close by polite standards, ignoring his friend’s indignant squawk of “What the hell, Iwa-chan?”

“Stop thinking stupid things,” he says. “You’ll get your chance at university.”

“But it won’t be with you,” Oikawa fires back, a bitter edge to it. He crosses his arms, trusting Hajime to keep him upright as the train turns again, shoulders high as he looks away. Hajime stares at him, his heart squeezing. It catches him off guard and amazes him sometimes, the times when Oikawa lifts the mask a little bit and lets Hajime in, that Oikawa seems to need, seems to _want,_ Hajime around just as much as he wants Oikawa around. Hajime’s not insecure enough to not know it on a basic level, but it can be so easy to forget in the face of Oikawa’s talent and larger than life personality, only the thread of their shared past seemingly holding them together. But no. It’s not just their common childhood that keeps them coming back to each other, that makes them choose the other over everyone else again and again. It’s always nice to be reminded though.

The brunette glances back at him, then sighs, letting one arm fall to hang uselessly at his side while the other grabs a support handle. “I just—I wish we could have won together.”

“But we did, Oikawa,” Hajime says gently. Good, they’re finally talking about it, they can start mending the frayed edges their mutual nerves and bitterness caused, though the venue isn’t the most ideal for this kind of conversation. He glances at some of the other passengers, but they’re either absorbed in something technologically inclined or politely averting their gazes. He lowers his voice. “We won all the time. Sure, it wasn’t against Shiratorizawa, but we had a good run.”

“You say that like this is the end,” he huffs, forcing a pout, the mask already starting to slip back into place. “Are you breaking up with me?”

Hajime pinches his side as punishment. “You're an amazing setter, Oikawa, a partner I can be proud of, that I can boast about. Just because we’re going to different universities—” the setter flinches slightly at this, but his eyes are wide and startled, “just because we’ll be on different teams, doesn’t mean that will change. We'll always be partners, you and I.” He smiles lopsidedly, jostling him with the arm across his back. “And when we meet on the court, I will defeat you.”

Oikawa stares at him for a long moment before stepping out of Hajime’s grip and holding out his fist, the other still clutching the handle. They lean with the train.

“Like hell you will,” he says, smirking, acknowledgement and confirmation all in one.

Hajime taps his fist against the setter’s, sealing the deal. Yeah, they’ll be okay. And though he’s still a little bit worried about how they’ll overcome the physical distance between their universities, he thinks that’s the biggest obstacle they’ll be facing now that they’ve settled most of the emotional baggage that they’ve been dragging around between them. A little reassurance can go a long way sometimes. Any residual tension drains from the both of them, his limbs already feeling looser. He hadn’t realized just how tense he’d been, too focused on Oikawa. He sighs, rolling his neck and shoulders until they pop. When their stop gets closer, Hajime cups the brunette’s elbow to get his attention. This time, it takes no effort at all to get his attention. “Mom asked me to pick up some things from the store.”

“I’ll go ahead, get your room ready for a movie night,” Oikawa says, nodding. He taps a finger to his chin. “There’s a new alien movie I’ve been wanting to watch. Just don’t forget the popcorn this time, Iwa-chan. I know it might be hard for your small brain to remember, but we ate the last of it a couple nights ago, and this movie deserves some popcorn.”

Hajime jabs Oikawa in the side, jaw clenched as he grinds out, “Dammit, Trashykawa. You just love to piss me off, don’t you?”

“Now, why would I want to do that?” Oikawa asks, teasing, his eyes at half-mast.

Hajime snorts, but he doesn’t pull his hand away when the setter squeezes it in passing as he walks off the train at their usual stop.

“Don’t forget!~” He calls right as the doors slide closed, waving. Hajime shakes his head, exasperated, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Oikawa’s retreating figure until the train swerves left and he’s gone, out of sight but never far out of mind.

He’s two stops away from the one he needs when suddenly a wave of vertigo washes over him. He clutches at the handle with one hand, clamps the other one over his closed eyes, stomach rolling. The train is spinning out from underneath him. He lists slightly to the side, hears someone ask him if he’s okay, but it sounds muffled and indistinct.

When he comes to, the sun is starting to set and he’s kneeling in a patch of overgrown grass in an unrecognizable clearing. It’s surrounded by a solid wall of trees, sprawling out in all directions, the sun just barely peeking through the foliage. Now, this alone is terrifying as hell; he doesn’t remember getting off the train, let alone walking to wherever the fuck he is. What really gets him though, leaves him gasping and scrambling back in the thick grass, his pulse racing, is the crumbling gravestone he can see poking out from the weeds directly in front of him, the gravestone his hand had just been resting on.

 

 

 

It takes him hours to find his way home, grocery-less and still positively terrified.

Hajime’d stumbled around that fucking forest for thirty minutes before he finally found the train station. By then, the sun had finally disappeared beneath the line of the horizon in a flash of red and orange. He’s never been more thankful for the GPS in his phone. Without it, he would have been stuck out there even longer, would have probably gotten lost and then eventually died of starvation or being mauled by a wild animal or something. His parents would have mourned his death, absolutely devastated, and Oikawa would have taken all his stuff “since Iwa-chan wouldn’t need it anymore now that he’s gone.”

He lets himself inside his home as quietly as he can, but his hands won’t stop trembling, fingers fumbling with his keys. He can’t stop picturing that ridiculous little field, the gravestone perched alone in the middle of it. No matter what kind of breathing exercise he does, he just can’t seem to calm down, adrenaline surging in his veins.

What the ever loving fuck?

It’s one thing to zone out for a few minutes, it’s another entirely to do so for two _hours_. He must have been out in that clearing, sitting there alone for a long time, judging by the stiffness of his limbs, his hand on that gravestone. And he has no way to explain this, no idea why it happened or what could have triggered it.

And he’d thought he was doing so well.

He toes off his shoes and trudges upstairs. His door is cracked, light flickering beyond it from the muted television. Oikawa is curled up on his bed, a pillow clutched to his chest. A spike of guilt courses through him at missing their movie night, but it’s quickly covered by the guilt for making the setter worry. His phone is loaded with texts, each one more frantic than the last, asking him where he is, if he’s alright. Hajime had somehow, in whatever state he had been in, texted Oikawa a simple “Something came up. Don’t worry.” There’s a break in Oikawa’s texts, then the last one was sent over half an hour ago, simply informing him that Oikawa was going to cover for him with his parents, that he was in big trouble, and could he please come home?

Hajime doesn’t even bother changing, he just slips under the covers, grabs the pillow out from Oikawa’s grasp and immediately plasters himself in its place, burying his face into the hollow of his neck. Oikawa startles out of sleep and immediately begins pawing at him, wrapping his arms around him when he realizes who it is. “Are you okay? Are you hurt? What took you so long?”

Hajime just borrows further into Oikawa and shakes his head, back rigid. His voice hoarse and strained, he says, “I’m okay. I-I got lost. Can we please just go to sleep?”

The questions taper off. Maybe he felt the way Hajime’s pulse is still sprinting in his chest or the fact that he’s clutching at him like he hasn’t since they were ten. Whatever it is, the setter takes a deep breath and tightens his grip around Hajime, one hand rubbing at Hajime’s back, the other cupping the nape of his neck, reassurance, comfort and a promise of protection. Between that and his familiar scent, Hajime is able to calm down enough to finally drift off.

And then the unthinkable happens: Hajime dreams.

 

 

_“The key to being a good knight is loyalty,” a man who could only be his father says as he puts on his chest plate, adjusting the straps of his worn gear._

_“I always thought strength was the key.” Hajime scrunches up his nose, face pinched. He’s six and kneeling stiffly on the floor, hands clenched together, watching his father suit up into his armor._

_He laughs, husky and amused. “Strength is certainly important. It can help a knight become great and accomplish amazing feats, but without loyalty, a knight is worthless.” His tone turns serious, authoritative, and Hajime listens attentively even as his composure starts to slip. “Without loyalty, a knight could kill his liege and slaughter innocent people. Loyalty is the difference between pledging your blade to a worthy cause or to a worthwhile leader and selfishly doing whatever you want. It is a knight’s most precious gift, one not to be given lightly, but one that must be given all the same.”_

_“Is that why you have to leave? Because of your loyalty?” His lip wobbles, his voice giving out. He glares down at the wooden slats of the floor through tears._

_“Oh, Hajime.” He clamps the boy’s shoulder tightly. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”_


	3. Chapter 3

“Well? Are you gonna tell me what happened?” Oikawa asks him. They’re sitting out under an old tree, their usual hangout during the meal break. Matsukawa and Hanamaki haven’t arrived yet, and this is the first time the two of them have been alone since the morning after the grave debacle.

He’d jerked awake curled around Oikawa, who had been sat up against the wall, scrolling through his phone. When he’d noticed that Hajime was awake, he’d untangled himself and gotten up, his face vaguely stormy until he covered it up with a flat smile. Hajime, still reeling from the dream he’d had, the first dream he can ever confidently say he remembered, and with such startling clarity too, watched as he changed.

With a flippant wave, he said, “See you at school, Iwa-chan!” And then he was gone.

Hajime hadn’t seen him much at all that week, beyond the occasional sighting of him in the hallways. It’s not like they have practice anymore, and Oikawa had been suspiciously absent the couple times Hajime stopped by his house to walk to school. He could tell Oikawa was avoiding him, but for once, he didn’t have the need to pursue and beat the idiot into submission. Oikawa would come to him eventually.

And now here they are. He should probably be grateful that Oikawa had waited this long to try and pry answers out of him.

(He has no idea how he would have reacted that morning, the dream still so fresh and close to the surface. Hajime can still feel the sadness the child had felt at his father leaving indefinitely. What’s worse is it hasn’t been the only dream he’s had this week. Just the other evening, he’d dreamt of a woman dressed in a worn kimono and smiling at him as she tended to a garden. The boy’s mother, he surmised)

But if anything, it only makes it harder. By this point, Oikawa’s had time to stew, for his worry over Hajime to sour into impatience. He can see hints of anger, at him or in general, Hajime doesn’t know, boiling under the thin veneer the setter has put up in the pinched corners of his mouth, his set jaw, the way he can’t stop picking at his fingernails.

“That’s a nasty habit, you know.” Hajime says. The time apart has only renewed his resolve to keep Oikawa as out of it as much as possible, half out of stubbornness, half because of that weird, incessant nagging feeling that has only gotten worse since that night. He thinks the two things might be related to the ache in his chest, and he rubs at it absentmindedly.

“Don’t change the subject,” Oikawa replies lightly but with the faintest of edges, a sharpness at odds with the smile on his face. Most wouldn’t catch it, it’s so faint, and for a second Hajime is in awe of Oikawa’s meticulous control over his emotions, but Hajime has known him for over a decade. He can’t hide anything from him, just like _he_ can’t hide anything from Oikawa.

“Don’t worry about it, Shittykawa,” he says, picking at the food in his bento.

“Of course I’m going to worry about it, Iwa-chan. You were gone for hours.”

“Just drop it, Oikawa.”

“Fucking typical,” Oikawa snaps suddenly, his face like thunder.

Hajime gives up the pretense of eating and glares at him, demanding, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that whenever something is wrong with me, it’s fine for you to hound me until I give in, but the second you have an issue, I should back off. But you know what, Iwa-chan?” Oikawa stands up, pacing away a bit before he pivots gracefully and paces back. “I’ve been waiting for you to come to me for a month, and I’ve been watching you come to school half-dead, watched you get injured because you’re suddenly zoning out at random—”

“Hey now, it was just a nosebleed. Hardly life threatening—”

“—granted you seem to have gotten better lately, but then last night happened—”

“I told you, I got lost—”

“You’ve lived here your entire life, Hajime! You _can’t_ get lost in Miyagi for two hours! It wouldn’t make any sense!” He grinds out, waving his arms around to emphasize the absurdity. “I know it’s hard for you to understand, but I’m allowed to want to protect you too! I’m not the little helpless kid you had to save from bullies.”

Hajime jerks his head back.

“Unless…” Oikawa stops to stand in front of him, eyes narrowed. “Have you been doing drugs?”

“What?” He puts his bento aside and stands up, shaking his head. “No!”

“Then what is it? I can’t help you if you don’t tell me anything.”

He runs a hand through his hair, debating his options. He can either tell Oikawa nothing and have the setter royally pissed at him for days, maybe even weeks. Oikawa can hold one hell of a grudge when he puts his mind to it (see exhibit Kageyama). Or he can tell Oikawa just enough to get him off his back for now. Telling him everything isn’t an option. Something in him balks harshly at the very idea of doing so.

“I’ve been having trouble sleeping lately,” Hajime admits, picking his words carefully. “At first, I thought it was stress. But now, I think it’s something else. I’ve started having these… dreams.”

Oikawa freezes, his face going slightly pale. “But you don’t dream.”

“Yeah. That’s what I thought too.”

“Huh.”

“I don’t know why this has started happening and I can’t make sense of them, but there seems to be a kind of progression, like it’s all going somewhere.” Here, Hajime shrugs. “I figure I’ll just wait it out and see where it goes.”

“Okay,” Oikawa says, face still paler than normal, but he’s less stiff and angry than he was before. “And you getting lost?”

Hajime purses his mouth and says, “I fell asleep on the train and had to backtrack.” Not a complete lie, strictly speaking, because it certainly felt a bit like he had. He feels a little bad for lying though. After all, his friend is only trying to help. But still.

Oikawa stares at him for a second, suspicious, then, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“That’s what I just said.” He says, expression smoothing out. He pats Hajime on the arm. “Well, class is about to start. We better go.”

They gather their things up, packing away their mostly uneaten lunches for later. Hajime realizes Hanamaki and Matsukawa hadn’t come at all, which means Oikawa must have bribed them to stay away, that he had planned for a confrontation all along, the sneaky fucker. This is the second time he’s managed to ambush Hajime. He needs to be on his guard more, shouldn’t’ve expected anything less from a guy who specializes in analyzing people and executing plans. If Hajime didn’t find those skills useful and strangely attractive, the fighter in him responding to the leader in Oikawa maybe, he’d probably be vaguely terrified of it.

The setter grabs his arm right before they enter the building. Biting his lip, he says, “Just… just take care of yourself, please.”

Hajime sighs, his face softening. “Of course, Oikawa.”

 

 

_“Never let your guard down, Hajime,” his father says as he thrusts the wooden practice sword into his unguarded side._

_Hajime cries out in pain, cringing back. He clamps a hand down where he was hit between the slats of his practice armor, rubbing gingerly at where he’s going to get another bruise. Like he doesn’t have enough of those by now. Sheesh. He’s eight, and his father finally agreed to train him in the way of the knight, proud of his son but also apprehensive of losing him to the cause. It’s slow going and difficult, and Hajime is worried that he’s not improving fast enough. He doesn’t want his father to stop teaching him._

_“A skilled warrior will not hesitate to take advantage of an opening, and a mistake like that could cost you your life.” His father pats him on the head. “Again.”_

 

 

Hajime’s starting to think these dreams aren’t just dreams. They just feel too real, as if Hajime is actually living them.

“Ow,” Hajime prods at the unblemished, tender spot on his arm, a dull ache flaring up. This is the third dream this week that he’s come out of it in some kind pain, phantom though it may be. The little kid in his dreams sure likes to get into some shit when he’s not being beaten into the ground by his father during his knight training. But what else is there for him to do, a faint voice asks defensively, from what he’s seen so far, the kid doesn’t seem to have anyone besides his parents. No wonder he gets into trouble all the time, falling out of trees and getting chased out of shops for being a little troublemaker. It must be lonely, he thinks, thankful that he had Oikawa to keep him in line (well, sort of) basically starting day one. If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t be surprised if he’d turned out the same way.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, he sighs and resigns himself to the bruise like ache he will be stuck with the remainder of the day.

He’s just happy things have been more or less patched up with Oikawa, he reflects as he waits for the setter outside his house.

They haven’t really slept over at each other’s houses since Hajime’s little stint with the weird field over two weeks ago, but then again, the original reason behind doing so seems to have disappeared. He’s still sleeping pretty well, and this change doesn’t seem to have adversely affected his sleep the way not sleeping near the setter originally did. He’s stopped sleep walking, and though he occasionally wakes up feeling groggy, they aren’t nearly as bad. Mostly, how he feels in the morning depends on what he dreamed of the night before, the more physically or emotionally demanding the dream is, the worse off Hajime is. He does generally seem to feel better when Oikawa is around though, so he’s always glad to hang out with his friend.

The weird ache in his chest, however, has transformed into something else. A strange tugging sensation pulls at him near constantly, pestering, and while he has a pretty good idea of where it might be trying to take him, he’d rather not go there again.

“Hajime-kun! You’re looking well,” Oikawa-san calls out from the doorway, her long hair slicked back into a stylish bun. He can see Oikawa rushing around just inside, probably trying to find one of his shoes. Hopeless.

“I’m doing okay, Auntie. How are you?” Hajime asks.

“Just fine. We’re planning a little dinner next week, and your family is invited.” She has a nice smile. It reminds Hajime of Oikawa’s when the setter deigns to do so genuinely.

“Thank you for the invitation! I’ll tell my mom,” he replies, bowing his head slightly.

Oikawa shouts triumphantly, skipping out of the house. He drops a kiss to his mother’s cheek as he passes, Hajime bids Oikawa-san goodbye, and then they’re off.

 

 

 

The weird flashes he got during Qualifiers get worse though.

They have a day off, so he and Oikawa take the train down to Tokyo. Hajime isn’t much of a city kind of guy, preferring the balance of quietness and noise of suburban life over the bright lights and hustle and bustle that are typical of cities like Tokyo. Tokyo is certainly cool in its own right, home to a host of interesting things to do and see, but it’s also somewhat cramped depending on where you go, the place stuffed full of people, shops, museums, everything.

Oikawa talks the entire ride down, and Hajime mostly tunes him out, grunting at the right moments as he’s supposed to. The further they get from Miyagi, the worse the tugging in his chest is getting. It’s not painful per se, but it is distracting.

“Are you okay?” Oikawa asks, eyes trained on the passing scenery. He gestures to his own chest when all Hajime does is blink at him in confusion.

Hajime looks down to where his fingers are rubbing circles into his sternum—he hadn’t even realized he’s been doing that. He clears his throat and forces his hand down to his side, then shrugs. “I’m fine.”

Oikawa hums. “This is our stop,” he says and stands up, plucking at Hajime’s sleeve.

They’re in Harajuku of the Shibuya district at Oikawa’s insistence. He wanted to go window shopping with the potential of actual shopping, and what better place to do so than Harajuku, home to one of Tokyo’s greatest shopping zones?

Oikawa leads Hajime out of the station with a hand on his wrist, through the crowds of teenagers and adults towards some of the smaller shopping boutiques. They stop and stare in awe at a group of gorgeously dressed people walking by; Hajime isn’t too big on fashion, but even he can admit that these people are on a whole other level. He can just see the stars in Oikawa’s eyes as the brunette claps his hands together in excitement. Besides space and volleyball, fashion is one of the greatest things as far as Oikawa is concerned, though his aesthetic taste leans more towards the absurd when it comes to actually dressing himself.

Hajime smiles helplessly, basking in the setter’s joy over something as simple as clothes. His heart swells in his chest, overwhelmed by the surge of affection. You’d think he’d be used to it by now. Agh.

“Iwa-chan—are you staring at me?” The setter asks, a teasing smirk on his face. “I can’t blame you, I am a marvel to witness!”

Immediately, Hajime flushes and he hates himself for it, for how easily Oikawa gets to him. He slaps a hand on Oikawa’s face, covering his inquiring brown eyes, yelling over his friend’s cries of protest, “You had something on your stupid face!”

“Ah! Was it a bug? Iwa-chan, did you get it?!” Oikawa flails, frantically pawing at his face. “It didn’t get in my hair did it?”

Hajime laughs, his face still warm, happiness bubbling in his chest even as crushing embarrassment flows through him in waves. Man, he can be so obvious sometimes. He shakes his head. When he notices Oikawa staring at him with a look of wonder on his face, his hands frozen where they had been searching for the non-existent threat, he furrows his brow and asks, “What?”

The setter’s face burns red even as he says, “Iwa-chan’s the one with a stupid face! No wonder girls don’t want to date him!”

A vein throbs in his temple, and he shouts, “Dammit, Trashykawa! You really know how to piss me off!” He knocks his fist against Oikawa’s head just hard enough to sting.

“Mean, Iwa-chan! Now everyone’s staring!”

“I don’t care! Come here.” He tries to grab Oikawa, but the brunette slips out of his grip with his tongue stuck out, the fucker. Oikawa runs off, disappearing into the wall of people walking down the street despite Hajime’s efforts to keep him in sight.

He ends up outside of some fashion store selling street fashion, panting and scanning the crowd for the tall idiot.

“He always was good at disappearing.”

Hajime whips around. Two teenagers stand behind him. The shorter one is wearing a white, hooded cloak and holding a weird wooden staff, a vaguely feline looking lump carved at the top. The other is dressed in a red robe and black suit, a pair of horns peeking out from his ridiculous bedhead. In spite of their strange outfits, no one pays them any mind. It’s like no one can even see them. The one in white turns his golden eyes on him, the intensity of his gaze forcing Hajime a step backwards.

It’s like both of them know him, these people that Hajime’s pretty sure he’s never met and yet… some part of him, so small and quiet, says that they’re familiar.

“Who are you?”

“But then again, you always were good at finding him.” The taller one smirks.

“What did you say?” Hajime demands. He clenches his hands into fists, but he’s frozen. He can’t move—

“Are you lost?” The illusion is broken. All that’s left are two normal teens, both in red volleyball jackets. They must be a part of one of the teams here in Tokyo, Nekoma maybe. The blonde’s eyes are no less assessing, but they’ve lost the edge of knowing that had just been there.

Hajime slowly allows himself to relax, taking a couple covert deep breaths. Then, he shakes his head. “Sorry. I just thought I… saw something.”

“Oh?” The dark haired boy drawls, eyebrow quirked.

He clears his throat, says, “I’m looking for someone actually—”

“Iwa-chan!” Someone collides into his back hard enough that he stumbles forward a bit. He would have toppled into the blonde if his friend hadn’t moved him aside by the arm.

“Ow—what the fuck, Idiotkawa? I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Hajime jostles the setter, careful not to dislodge him, his familiar weight a comfort after whatever the fuck just happened.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Oikawa says cheerfully, like there’s nothing wrong and he hadn’t disappeared for ten minutes, leaving Hajime to get lost or worse. “Who are these two?” He asks suddenly, his head tilted slightly to the side as he looks the two over.

The dark haired boy squints at Oikawa for a second, before smiling faintly. “I’m—”

“Ah, don’t care!” Oikawa grabs Hajime by his arm and starts dragging him away. “C’mon, Iwa-chan! We haven’t even been into any of the shops yet. We can’t let this trip go to waste!”

“Oi!” Hajime barks but the setter doesn’t stop, doesn’t even turn back around, just keeps pulling Hajime with him. “Sorry!” He shouts back at the two watching them, one with a look of confusion, the other with a look of amusement. He sees the dark haired teen wave before they’re engulfed by the crowd.

 

 

 

_“Freak!”_

_Hajime’s crouched under a bush, pawing through its branches, trying to find beetles to bring home and show his mother. Even though he’s ten now and technically a knight’s apprentice, he loves the amused smile on her face when she accepts them, precious gifts in her hands, before she puts them into her garden. He pokes his head out of the underbrush when he hears a boy shout in pain, almost covered by the cruel laughter of older boys Hajime can recognize as being from his village but who he has never cared to remember the names of._

_Just up the path, three village boys are standing over the hunched over figure of another. Hajime doesn’t recognize him, his clothes alone setting him apart from the villagers, so he must not be from there. One boy kicks him, while another demands, “What the fuck is a freak like you doing near our village?!”_

_With furrowed brow, Hajime wrenches himself free of the bush and runs over to them, making sure to put himself between the bullies and the curled up form of the outsider._

_“Hey!” He yells, throwing his arms out. “Stop that! That’s no way to treat someone.”_

_The older boys glare at him, their faces twisted into sneers and smirks. “What are you gonna do about it, huh? You’re barely even a knight in training!”_

_Hajime doesn’t even bother to give the jerk an answer. He just punches him in the face, right in the nose where his momma always told him to aim. The boy stumbles back, falling to the ground, blood gushing out of his nose. Hajime shakes out his hand, glaring at the other two boys._

_“Wanna fight?!” He thinks he might be able to take the other two boys as long as they don’t try to attack him at the same time, but he needn’t have worried. They turn tail and run, leaving their friend scrambling to his feet behind them. Hajime makes sure all of them are out of sight before he sighs, relaxing._

_“You didn’t have to do that,” the boy says behind him, his voice wooden and rough with pain. “I had it handled.”_

_“Like hell you did,” Hajime says and turns to face him. He pulls up short when he actually looks at him though, taking in the horns curling out from the boy’s skull, the sharp nails and fangs. With a gasp, he looks up and meets the blood red eyes of the demon boy slowly getting to his feet. His heart is beating quickly, but for some reason, he knows it isn’t quite fear that he is feeling. How could it be? He can’t find it in himself to be scared of him, he’s even shorter than Hajime after all, even though he’s something he’d grown up hearing about, being told to fear. But why would he be scared of this boy, who did not hurt the village bullies even though he probably could have if demons have the power they’re said to, who is looking at Hajime with a look of resignation, like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Hajime to turn on him too. Well, fuck him._

_He steps in closer to the boy and asks, “Are you badly hurt?”_

_The demon’s eyes widen, his entire body jolting. “What?”_

_“You don’t_ look _too badly hurt,” Hajime says, ignoring the question. He starts prodding at the demon boy’s arms and chest, looking for some unrevealed injury. Hopefully, he’s not bleeding internally. Hajime is okay at basic medicine, cleaning out and patching up small wounds a part of his daily life as a knight in training, but if the demon is bleeding internally, then he wouldn’t be able to do anything._

_“H-hey! Stop that!” The boy grabs his wrists, his dirt splattered face flushed almost as red as his eyes. “I’m fine.”_

_“Well, why didn’t you just say that, you idiot?”_

_“For being my hero, you sure are a jerk! I can’t believe this—” The boy pauses before grabbing at Hajime’s hand, his eyes wide. “Your hand is bleeding!” he shrieks._

_Hajime looks down, and yes, his knuckles are bleeding sluggishly, the skin split where it had made contact with the bully’s nose. “Whatever,” he says, trying to yank his hand out of the boy’s grip, his face burning slightly. No one besides his parents has ever really shown him much concern, and then this demon boy had to go and do it? Agh. The obvious worry on the boy’s face makes him flustered._

_But then the boy bursts into tears, cradling Hajime’s hand tightly to his chest as he sobs. Hajime freaks out a little, composure broken as he tries to get the demon to stop crying. “It’s okay! It doesn’t even hurt!” He tries patting the boy on the head, but that only seems to make him cry harder._

_What kind of demon cried over someone else bleeding, let alone a human? So confusing._

_Desperate, Hajime rips his hand out of the demon’s grasp and hauls the boy into a hug, humming a lullaby his mother used to sing to him before he went to bed. The demon boy latches onto him, squeezing his waist so tight, Hajime worries he might die. A few minutes pass._

_Finally, the boy pulls away slightly, wiping at his wet face with his sleeve._

_“You’re a really ugly crier,” Hajime says, and he can’t help but laugh in relief, rubbing his hands up and down the boy’s sides._

_The boy glares at him indignantly, but Hajime can see the vaguest traces of a smile flirting with the corners of his mouth. “Excuse you, human! That’s no way to talk to a prince!”_

_“Some prince you are.”_

_“How cruel!”_

_Hajime snickers, shaking his head before his expression turns serious. “What are you doing here? You put yourself in a lot of danger, wandering so close to a human village like this.”_

_The demon’s face is blank, his red eyes haunted as he says, softly, “I ran away.”_

_He can tell the boy doesn’t want to talk about it, that he probably won’t expand on it further even if Hajime prodded him, so he just sighs. “What’s your name anyway?”_

_Like nothing was ever wrong, he spins out of Hajime’s hold, sweeps his cloak back and formally bows, all pomp. “My name is—”_

 

 

 

“Oikawa!” Hajime growls, dragging the fake faced bastard away from his little fan club.

“Have a good afternoon~!” He calls back to them. Hajime can hear the sighs and squeals from the girls, and it just makes him grind his teeth more.

“We promised the team we’d practice with them today, Assikawa! Or did you forget?”

“Of course I didn’t forget. I was almost finished up when you came and got me.” Oikawa lets Hajime drag him along by his scruff for a few more feet before he pulls out of his grasp, linking his arm through Hajime’s instead. “You seem particularly irritable today, Iwa-chan.”

“Agh. It’s fine. Just didn’t sleep well last night,” Hajime grunts, covering his face with his unoccupied hand. He’d woken up that morning confused and slightly frustrated. In the last few dreams, Hajime had been more or less able to remember most of the details when he’d come to, from the pattern of the mother’s kimono to the scuffed marks the father just couldn’t seem to buff out of his armor. But no matter how hard he tries, he can’t remember the face of the demon boy dream Hajime had helped. It’s like it’s been blotted out. To make matters worse, he’d woken up before he could catch the boy’s name. The boy’s voice struck him as familiar though, but he can’t put his finger on it and that makes him even more annoyed.

Damn it.

At least the dreams seem to be progressing in some sort of fragmented chronological order, so it’s not too hard to figure out where the pieces fit together. There doesn’t seem to be any sort of rhyme or reason for what he dreams besides that. In fact, they’ve been known to skip over vast lengths of time, Hajime can tell there’s years’ worth of… whatever the dreams are missing (he has a hunch, but he’s waiting a little longer to be sure he’s right), and he knows he’s not exactly getting every second of every day either. He’s getting just enough to understand what dream Hajime’s “life” was like.

In an effort to keep from being passive, because Hajime is a man of action, he’s stopped looking up all of his weird symptoms (those searches were leading nowhere with every new “symptom” as far as Hajime is concerned) and started trying to research this dream Hajime, thinking maybe he’s some historical figure he might have read about in a textbook or online who happens to share his name. So far, there’s been no leads, but who knows.

He shakes himself of his thoughts when they reach the clubroom, jerking his arm free of Oikawa’s in the process.

Yahaba throws the door open, grin lighting up the new captain’s face. “We’re so glad you guys could make it! Thank you so much for helping out.”

“It’s no problem,” Oikawa says, waving his hand flippantly. “Now, where is Mad Dog-chan?”

 

 

 

_“I’m going to reunite the Kingdom of Aoba Johsai,” The demon Prince declares years later. He and Hajime are lounging under their favorite tree in one of the fields by his house on the outskirts of his village._

_“You’ll be a great king,” Hajime says, because if anyone can do it, it’s his friend. “You are technically the rightful heir after all.”_

_“Dammit Hajime, you don’t just say something like that!”_

_“Why? It’s true.”_

_“Agh. You don’t have a romantic bone in your body, do you?” the demon complains, a bashful flush staining his cheeks. The sight makes his heart skip a beat, so he looks away, trying to contain the fluttering in his stomach. Sometimes, he’s amazed by how much this man affects him._

_“What does being romantic have to do with this conversation?”_

_“Whatever!”_

_The years have been kind to his friend, Hajime thinks not for the first time, peering down at him through half-closed eyes. He’s finally surpassed Hajime in height (damn him), his face sharpening into regal angles, the lines of his body smoothing out elegantly with every pound of baby fat lost. The little demon boy he was when Hajime saved him is almost completely gone, traces found only in the moments he lets himself be completely genuine instead of hiding behind dramatics or noble standards._

_Hajime can’t say he’s experienced quite the same kind of change. He feels like all he’s done, besides getting taller (but not nearly tall enough), is get broader. His knight training has been well under way for years now and he’s put on a lot of muscle because of it. Now that he’s sixteen, he’s nearly finished with his training, if the hushed conversations and proud looks his parents have been sharing are anything to go by._

_“Are you staring at me, Hajime?” One red eye opens to catch his gaze, a smirk on the Prince’s face._

_His face burns and he glowers at him, spluttering, “S-shut up!”_

_“How rude! That’s not how you talk to royalty.” The demon sniffs dramatically before rolling over so he’s sprawled out on Hajime’s chest. He’s never really understood the human concept of personal space, but Hajime’s never really minded. The red eyed teen’s just lucky Hajime had stripped out of his armor when they got here. Or maybe it’s Hajime whose lucky since he doesn’t have to deal with his complaining about how awful a pillow he makes with his armor on._

_Hajime sighs, flopping an arm over his eyes. “Watch the horns.”_

_Judging by the silence, the Prince is pouting. “Iwai-zu-mi,” he drags it out, whining._

_“What?”_

_“Hajime!”_

_“Fine,” he grumbles, his face heating up even more. He looks at the Prince with a half-glare but he can’t help the way he softens at the genuine smile on his face, the way the corners of his eyes are crinkled. He pets tentatively through the tangle of the demon’s hair, careful not to pull on his horns. He’s found that scratching lightly at the base of them, however, leaves the demon melted and limp in his grasp._

_After a moment of silence, Hajime clears his throat. “I’ve been thinking…”_

_“Not too hard I hope,” the Prince teases, rubbing his face into the worn fabric of Hajime’s shirt._

_Hajime tugs on a few strands just hard enough for the other teen to mutter indignantly before resuming his gentle ministrations. He continues, somewhat nervously, “I think, after I’ve completed my training and am initiated officially, I’m going to pledge my sword—”_

_The Prince’s head shoots up, nearly impaling Hajime with his horns. It’s only his fast reflexes that saves him, but even so, he’s not prepared for the twisted look on the demon’s face, intense and possessive and borderline terrifying. Sometimes, Hajime forgets that his friend isn’t just a normal human, despite all the reminders to the contrary. He just never acts how Hajime always imagined a demon acting, but then at times like this, it’s hard to forget. The demon’s claws pierce through Hajime’s clothes, pinching his skin where he’s gripping onto Hajime a little too tightly for comfort._

_“Oi!”_

_“I can’t believe you! Does our friendship mean nothing to you?” The demon shouts. “Agh. Let me go!”_

_“What? No!” Hajime tightens his hold, thankful that his friend falls on the magic end of the power scale rather than the strength side. He flips them over so he’s straddling him, pinning him down with his hands on his shoulders. “Let me finish!”_

_“Why would I do that?! You’re abandoning me, after everything we’ve been through! Just like everyone else,” his voice trails off, sad but seemingly unsurprised, like he’s been waiting for this to happen despite the many years Hajime has spent by his side._

_“I won’t abandon you! Dammit, if you would just let me finish—I was going to say that I’m planning on pledging my sword to_ you _!” Hajime growls, shaking the demon. His friend is frozen, mouth open wide._

_“Hajime.”_

_He lets go of the Prince’s arms and glares down at him, then jabs him repeatedly in the chest. “I’m never going to abandon you, so get it through your thick skull and stop worrying about it so much.”_

_The fact that his friend hasn’t noticed how utterly devoted he is to him leaves Hajime feeling simultaneously relieved (because what if he doesn’t feel the same?) and frustrated (he’s supposed to be smart, but he can be oblivious as fuck sometimes). Regardless, whenever the Prince gets in a mood like this, he tries his best to remind him of it without actually outright saying it. Because he means it with every fiber of his being. Of course he won’t abandon him, he’d rather cut off his own arm first before doing so._

_For a moment, his friend stares up at him but it isn’t long before he’s throwing himself at Hajime, the force of it knocking him back onto the ground. “Hajime!”_

_“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Hajime sighs, flushed. He should be used to this by now, with how long they’ve known each other, but he’s not. He gently pats the demon on the head. “Don’t mention it.”_


	4. Chapter 4

With every dream, the tugging sensation gets more and more insistent. It goes from annoying distraction to a nuisance that keeps dragging his attention away from other things. He’s not zoning out exactly, not like before, but he finds he can’t help but look out towards where he’s being pulled. The only time it seems to improve any is around Oikawa, but even then, it’s there: a constant reminder.

It’s when he almost gets hit by a car, saved only by the driver slowing down in time and his own quick reflexes, that he finally decides that enough is enough.

“I’m going exploring!” He calls to his mother as he slips on his sneakers and a jacket, the spring air still chilly now and then.

“Don’t stay out too late!”

He closes the door behind him and adjusts his baseball hat so it sits low over his forehead, hopefully concealing his identity from those he’d rather not be seen by. He wants as few people to know about this as possible. Hajime had even texted Oikawa earlier in the day, begging off too much homework and not wanting to be distracted, and yes, of course they will reschedule their movie marathon, tomorrow is fine, no, please don’t come over, etc.

The walk to the train station passes quickly, the ride even more so, and even though he doesn’t quite remember which station he needs to get off at (because by now he knows the destination without even a sliver of doubt), he doesn’t worry too much about it. He just lets his body and the thread jerking at his chest finally take him to where it wants him to go.

The field is just as dense and inhospitable looking as the last time he was here, though it doesn’t look nearly as horrifying now that it isn’t colored by his confusion and terror. It’s also a lot smaller looking than he remembers, the open area hardly bigger than a standard high school classroom. The sun shines through the leaves on the trees, and Hajime’s eye catches on all of the rubble strewn about the place, large mounds of stone mixing in with more delicately crafted bricks. If he squints, the stones all seem to line up into some kind of square configuration, almost like there used to be some kind of house or a small temple that’s rotted away from disuse.

He can’t think of any temple he’s heard of being this far out though, let alone think of why anyone would abandon it. Plus, there doesn’t seem to be any sort of alter visible in any way. Maybe it was once a home, or what passed as a home some indeterminable time ago? Hajime doesn’t know.

He works his way through the grass, so tall he can hardly even walk through it without almost tripping every other step, until he comes upon the grave, the tombstone looking just as weathered and sad as before and equally as disquieting as that night weeks ago. He examines the stone but can’t make sense of the shallow, barely there markings to explain who it was or what it’s doing there.

Frustrated, he shouts, “I’m here! What do you want from me?”

No answer.

Hajime growls and digs his knuckles into his eyes. He came all the way out here, and for nothing. He just wishes he could figure out what keeps calling him out here day in and day out. Maybe then he can finally figure out what has been happening, why it’s been happening, and then find a way to make it all stop or at least make sense of it. He takes the cap off and runs his hand through his hair, yanking lightly.

“Fine!” He paces back out of the clearing, nearly tripping over one of the stone bricks. He’ll come back another time. Hopefully, something will happen then.

But it doesn’t.

He makes the trek four more times over the next two weeks, carefully hiding his tracks from his friends, especially Oikawa, keeping an eye out for anyone he might know with a paranoid sort of vigilance because like hell will he let anyone know about this, before he finally decides that nothing will probably happen, at least, nothing huge and glamorous and dramatic. The only thing good that seems to be coming out of going out there is the weird tugging has weakened considerably, so he at least knows he’s in the right place.

On the other side of things, he’s dreaming nearly every night, visions of the Knight’s initiation (which involved a whole lot of reciting and a mini-quest to a nearby village to help with a bandit problem. The demon Prince did not appreciate Hajime’s absence, not one bit, and when Hajime found him crouching behind a bush, pushing bandits off their horses with his magic, he knocked his fist against the teen’s skull and yelled at him about the importance of his safety over his friend’s complaints) to the special fealty ceremony the demon insisted they have as part of Hajime’s pledge to him (Hajime accepted on the grounds that his friend would finally stop doubting his place by Hajime’s side, to which the demon snorted and looked away, but seemed to acknowledge all the same. It involved a bit of blood and words in a language Hajime couldn’t understand, but when it was done, the Knight had dropped on bended knee at his Prince’s feet, pressing his lips to the delicate skin of his knuckles, his heart stuttering in his chest).

The duo’s first major campaign together in their effort to reunite the Kingdom under the demon’s rule was interesting to witness. Having amassed an army of volunteers during the two years they had been traveling around the borders, doing research on the rulers and their reign, the campaign was a success. (During this journey, they met another demon who suspiciously looked and sounded a lot like Yahaba, only with horns and a weird sense of fashion, who decided to join their cause once he heard his Prince—now King—out. With his help, they were able to conquer an area of land where demons had been roaming free to hurt anyone they wished without threat of punishment. When his friend set one of the demons aflame, the red in his eyes glowing with power and intensity, it was only Hajime’s scolding that kept him in check, for what was a king if he had no subjects, if he had no compassion and understanding or sense of justice? Killing wasn’t the only option after all.)

Hajime’s also beginning to think that the Knight might have been in love with the demon King. He’s not entirely sure why, but there’s something strangely familiar about how the two interact, particularly how the Knight watches the King.

When just showing up to the field doesn’t seem to work, he tries staying longer than ten minutes, leaning against a tree with only the sounds of animals and insects for company. This involves a lot more planning because he can’t miss school and he can’t let anyone onto what he’s doing, but overall, it’s doable. During one trip out, he must have fallen asleep, strangely comfortable even though there’s a lot about this place he doesn’t understand. And when he wakes up, the clearing is full of flowers blooming, delicate and fragrant and making him sneeze, only they disappear once he realizes that’s not right, that’s not how this place is. He refuses to come back for a week after that, though he’s quick to give in and makes the trip out again, glaring at the empty train seat in front of him as he does.

He’s just getting a little… frustrated, understandably so in his opinion. How long is all of this going to keep up? Since that first morning he woke up feeling like shit (and has it really been only two months? Damn, they sure have dragged on and on, and with so little to show in the way of answers), it’s almost like everything has been building toward something. It has to come to a head at some point, right? But when and to what end?

All he knows, in this moment and with any kind of certainty, is the fact that he needs to be there.

Whatever.

“Well, if I’m going to be here, I might as well be doing something,” Hajime mutters to himself after passing another fruitless afternoon.

At first, he tries to get his homework done. Even though he’s been accepted by his choice of university, it wouldn’t do for his grades to drop, for him to give them any reason not to take him in, so what a perfect solution. He can get stuff done, the field is pretty peaceful without anyone around to bother him, even more so now that he’s spent so much time in it (though he’s consciously avoided the grave marker since returning that first time. It still creeps him out a little bit), he doesn’t have to worry about being distracted by that tugging sensation, and he’s there in case something finally happens.

He should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.

“What do you mean you don’t want to come over and do homework?” Oikawa asks petulantly.

“It means exactly how it sounds, Idiotkawa.”

The setter pouts, picking at his nails. “Fine. I don’t care. It’s not like we’ve been meeting up after school basically every day since elementary school to do homework together.”

Hajime’s shoulders slump and he groans. “Damn it, Oikawa. Stop trying to make me feel bad.”

“I’m doing no such thing!”

“Yes, you are. C’mon, you’re always complaining about how slow I am anyway.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

“Agh. You wouldn’t understand,” he complains.

Hajime rolls his eyes and huffs, but he spends the next couple afternoons doing homework with Oikawa, teasing the setter until he finally cries, “Fine! Go do your homework somewhere else! Leave me here in peace.”

He mentally fist pumps, ruffling the brunette’s hair in silent thanks as he leaves.

Except, now that he’s here, he finds he can’t concentrate at all. He’ll get situated against what has come to be his favorite tree, pull out his pencil and workbook, but then he can’t seem to get focused enough to actually do anything productive. He can force himself through a couple assigned problems, but when he goes back to check them later on, they’re often incorrect.

In a fit of annoyance, Hajime chucks his workbook into the thick grass, which in hindsight was an awful fucking idea. It takes him twenty minutes to relocate it and he’s pretty sure he’s gotten hives from all the itchy damn grass.

He spends the next couple days avoiding the field and trying to keep from scratching the red welts on his arms, making his excuses about having some kind of allergic reaction when the team asks about it one of the afternoons he decides to help with practice. Oikawa, ever aware of illness and such, both keeps his distance and flings anti-itching cream at his head, demanding to know “whether Iwa-chan is sure it’s an allergic reaction? I thought I knew all of your allergies? Don’t come near me!”

Dealing with all of that shit gives him an idea though. If he can’t do homework there, maybe he could try and fix the place up a bit.

Because, if anything, he can at least do that.

Judging by the configuration and scale of the stone ruins of what he’s tentatively calling a funerary temple, it could have once been a pretty great, if modest, sight to behold. He probably won’t be able to return it to its former grandeur and glory, but he can at least clean it up a bit. He doesn’t know why it’s gone to ruin, but that doesn’t mean it should be allowed to do so any longer with Hajime there. The dead should be treated with more respect, and the person buried here deserves better than unkempt weeds and broken stones.

Only, when he starts to think about where to even start, he realizes he knows next to nothing about what land maintenance entails, let alone the difference between a weed that needs to be pulled and a plant that should be nurtured.

He really doesn’t want to fuck this up, and if he’s going to do this, he’s going to do this right.

Resolved, Hajime runs to his school library the next day with a vague idea of what he needs.

“Do we have anything on yard maintenance or gardening, Higurashi-san?” He asks the library assistant, a girl he vaguely remembers from one of his classes two years ago.

She smiles at him, shy and polite. “Anything in particular, Iwaizumi-san?”

“Just the basics, please.”

She confers with the online catalog, recording a few suggestions, and then she hands the slip of paper to him. “The first two will probably be the most help for beginner gardeners and landscape artists. The rest are good if you need more information.”

“Thank you.”

It’s not too hard to find the first book, but the second one proves to be a little more elusive. He’s crouched down in the stacks, skimming his fingers over the different bindings as he looks for the other suggestion when he feels a tap on his shoulder.

He jumps, nearly falling over.

“What are you doing?” Matsukawa asks, hands in his pockets. He glances at the book in Hajime’s hand and raises an eyebrow. “Gardening?”

“Yeah,” Hajime says.

“Hm.” The dark haired teen squats down beside him, barely glances at the slip of paper in Hajime’s hand, and grabs the book he’s been looking for.

“Thanks—”

“You know, I think I speak for Makki too when I say either of us would be happy to help you with your… gardening.”

Hajime blinks, stunned. The only time he’s seen Matsukawa this serious is either on the court or when one of their teammates are injured. He knew the both of them cared, that they showed it differently than Oikawa, than everyone else, but it’s always nice to get a reminder that they’re there for him. Even when they don’t have any idea what is going on.

Man, he has such great friends.

“Just saying.” Matsukawa straightens back up, waving.

“Hey, Mattsun,” Hajime calls after him. Only after they make eye contact does he firmly say, “Thank you.”

“No problem.” Matsukawa smiles and walks away.

 

 

 

So begins Hajime’s dedicated stint as a gardener… sort of. The books have been a godsend as far as informing him what he should and shouldn’t do, and for what it can’t tell him, like what kind of plants he’s working with and how he should tame them, he’s able to consult the internet for the answers.

He starts by trimming the dense grass down to a more manageable size so he can see what all is actually there and so the lawnmower, when he inevitably brings one over, will survive the labor intensive escapade. Luckily, he was able to borrow some hefty hedge clippers from a neighbor without too much hassle, and though people eyed him strangely on the train, the ride to the field passed with little fanfare. Taking his time, he carefully analyzes the patch he’s going to clip before he does to try and ensure he doesn’t accidentally snip off the heads or stalks of anything he shouldn’t.

Hajime never realized so many other plants could possibly be living underneath all of that growth until he keeps finding all of these small, colorful flowers that his books say should probably be dead from lack of sunlight because they are “full sun perennials” or something. Besides being a little on the small side, the flowers look fine for the most part, and when he pauses in his work, his shirt soaked through with sweat, he strokes the petals of one and finds them soft to the touch.

(He decides it won’t completely ruin everything if he takes a couple home with him, so he offers a bouquet to his mother and to Oikawa-san, their bright smiles more than worth it. He even gives Oikawa a small bundle, instructing him to place them into a cup with fresh water to keep them alive longer. The setter accepts them, flushed and with an absent smile on his face, something vaguely unsettled lurking in his eyes.)

He finds some neat looking bugs too, and while he’s tempted to bring a jar with him on more than one occasion, the child in Hajime wanting to capture the little specimens to show others, he manages to refrain from doing so, though with a twinge of regret.

What he can’t trim down with the clippers, whether because he couldn’t fit them without risking the flowers or because he was getting sick of using them, he yanks out by hand, cloth gloves bought spur of the moment one night when he was browsing gardening tools online, his hands littered with tiny cuts. The whole thing is a long, arduous process and between school work, Oikawa, occasionally helping out with the team, weight training, his family, etc, it takes him a lot longer than he would have liked. At the very least, it’s given him time to think about everything, from the shit that’s been happening to him to his life in general and what direction he wants it to take.

It also, surprisingly, helps him work through any anger or annoyance he’s feeling that day. Who knew cursing at some plants while he brutally usurps their place of existence was so cleansing?

The act of sprucing up the place, getting on his hands and knees to pull some weeds for a couple hours on the days rain doesn’t threaten to flood him out, his muscles weirdly sore but satisfying evidence that he’s doing something, leaves him warm and content despite his aching limbs. He’s doing something good, and he’s not doing too badly of a job if he may say so himself. He also, strangely enough, feels better. The tugging is almost completely gone, save for the times when he can’t make it out to the clearing for a few days. The dreams are still pretty constant, but he no longer wakes up exhausted from them, only tired from the previous day’s activity. He just genuinely feels healthier all around.

It’s nice.

In the time it takes for him to get some of the grass trimmed down, he also makes a pretty massive (at least to him) discovery: there’s another grave, situated fairly close to the first one Hajime found.

He’s surprised he hadn’t noticed it before, but between the thick weeds and avoiding that area of the field the majority of the time, he just never saw it. This one seems to be in worse condition, collapsed and disintegrating. If there was ever any words on it, they were weathered away centuries ago. It must have been put there long before that first one.

Hajime shakes his head, raking the bottom of his shirt up to mop at the sweat on his face. He’s started getting tanner, and in moments like this, the sun beating down on his shoulders, he’s glad he’s never been prone to burning.

(“Not fair!” Oikawa has hissed on more than one occasion, his delicate skin stained red from too much sun. Honestly though, Hajime finds it kind of cute, his friend’s penchant for getting almost unnaturally burned no matter how much sunscreen he lathers on, the way he gets all sleepy and pouty and pliant. And though Hajime always complains, he’s secretly happy to rub the lidocaine infested aloe on all of his awful burns for him when he demands it as compensation.)

He’s also getting dirty, between grass clippings clinging to all of his clothes and dirt stubbornly sticking under his fingernails and in the little grooves of his hands. He’s given up on scrubbing his hands totally clean since that first day he came back home, his parents asking how he got so filthy.

(He doesn’t want to lie to them about this, and there’s nothing to stop him, so he tells them the truth, more or less. “I found an old funerary temple and I wanted to fix it up out of respect for the dead.”

His mother coos over him, face proud and his father nods, though cautioning him to “not let your schoolwork fall behind.”

“It’s fine, dad. I’ve got it handled.”)

His parents aren’t the only ones who notice though.

“Man, Iwaizumi, your nails are dirty as hell,” Hanamaki remarks one afternoon, spinning a ball on his pointer while peering interestedly at them.

Hajime can tell that the rest of the team are covertly or outright listening in where they’re stretching nearby, probably curious. He draws out the silence a little bit, because they deserve to be left hanging, the little sneaks, then he shrugs. “It’s just dirt.”

If anything, that makes everyone even more curious. Considering he’s always instructing his teammates (read: mostly Oikawa, but also the setters in general) to keep good hand hygiene, he can sort of understand why they’re sort of confused by his own seeming lack of it.

(He even goes so far as to help them out when he can, filing their nails down and massaging lotions into the cracks so they won’t bleed and over callouses to soften them a bit, because it really is important for setters at least in particular to keep their hands happy and healthy since they use them so much. So, as the ace, he’s always felt it was his duty to do what he could to help them out. Yahaba and Watari all seemed to appreciate it, though they always seem rather flustered when he does it. Oikawa always just complains, but Hajime can tell he appreciates it too, and as long as he keeps letting him do it, he will.)

“Iwa-chan is a caveman!” Oikawa says from where he’s lining up to serve. Hajime grabs the ball from Hanamaki and pitches it at him, smirking in approval when it hits the setter in the back of the head right after he lands. Oikawa stumbles before whipping around and glaring, hands on his hips. “Don’t be jealous that you’re not as beautiful as me!”

Hajime shakes his head and laughs, rough and amused, which seems to shock the setter judging by the frozen look on his face. He’d probably been expecting another sort of retaliation.

“How’s the gardening going?” Matsukawa asks, propping an arm on Hajime’s shoulder.

“You could build a small fort with that much dirt,” Hanamaki says with a smirk, taking his other side.

He shrugs again, careful not to dislodge them, and then says, “It’s going fine.”

A few of his underclassmen share looks of disbelief, as if they can’t believe a guy like Hajime could garden or some other ridiculous notion, while others (namely Yahaba and Watari) look excited and strangely impressed. He wonders if they garden too.

Hajime doesn’t bother to expand beyond that, lets the guys fill in the blanks as they wish. Hopefully, they’ll assume he’s gardening at his house or something and not question him further. Everyone seems content, more or less with his explanation though, except for, of course, Oikawa, who can almost always see right through his omissions, staring at him with his head tilted to the side. He doesn’t say anything though, so Hajime tries not to think too hard about it. Oikawa will come to him with it eventually, if he cares to remember this at all.

He’s kind of pleasantly surprised when Kindaichi comes up to him after practice to inquire about gardening.

“I’m still pretty new to it, but I can give you a couple book suggestions that helped me get started.”

“No! Yes! Um.” Kindaichi blushes.

“Which is it?” Hajime asks.

“Yes, please.”

Once he’s gotten the grass down to a more manageable height, he starts sorting through the rubble strewn about the field. It’s times like this, when he’s lugging around one of the larger stones closer to where he thinks the north wall used to be, that he’s glad he kept up his weight training from when he was on the team. Unfortunately, some of them are just too big, and while he can slowly, painfully roll a few of them into some kind of order, not all of them will budge. He’d rather not strain something in the process, so he leaves those ones alone for now. Maybe, when he finally decides to share all of this with someone, they can help him make the final, finishing touches. Until then, he’s only got himself to rely on.

 

 

_“Why did you do it?” Hajime asks, his voice flat and deathly quiet in the still throne room._

_They had taken this castle years ago from a host of cruel demons, the kind Hajime had grown up hearing about, ones who had been playing tyrannical leaders, slaughtering even the smallest signs of unrest. The stories Hajime had heard about these monsters, how they demanded sacrificial tribute from the different villages and tortured their prisoners for the fun of it, only reinforced his resolve to help restore this damaged, scared Kingdom to its former glory. Retaking this castle in the name of the true heir, in Oikawa’s name, had been the first step to reuniting Aoba Johsai, the place his King had fled from all those years ago._

_Oikawa had finally opened up about why he’d run away from the Kingdom he was the prince of one morning, a morning that was hardly unique or special, but perhaps that’s why he did it then._

_Hajime had been sleeping on his cot in the hut he had purchased just six months ago with money made doing odd jobs where a knight was needed around nearby villages, seventeen and ready to take on the world for his liege, for Tooru._

_(His parents weren’t too keen on Hajime sharing a home with a demon, still wary of him despite knowing him for several years. It’s annoying when they’re constantly telling him to be careful. He knows what he’s doing, and Tooru wouldn’t ever hurt him the way they think he will. It’s his heart that needs to be guarded more than anything.)_

_The demon King, for he will be one day if Hajime has anything to say about it, had crawled in next to him despite his own warm bed on the other side of the room and prodded the Knight awake._

_“What is it?”_

_“Sometimes, I really miss them,” Oikawa whispered into Hajime’s shoulder, pressing close, burning hotter than any fire Hajime had ever felt._

_“Miss who?” He asked, voice clogged with sleep._

_“My family.”_

_Hajime came awake more fully to that, rolling over to face Oikawa, their breath mingling between them. “Oh?”_

_“They were murdered, them and almost everyone else in our castle,” Oikawa said, low and harsh, “by demons who didn’t agree with my family’s peaceful politics and our acceptance of humans in our domain.”_

_“Tooru.”_

_The red in his eyes flared up, glowing softly in the dim morning sun. The grip he had on Hajime’s arm tightened considerably, almost painfully, his face twisting into a snarl. “I’m going to tear them limb from limb for what they did, for what they’re still doing.”_

_“I’ll help you,” Hajime said right away, no hesitation. No wonder little Oikawa had burst into tears over Hajime’s bleeding hand, considering the horror of what he’d only just escaped. He probably hadn’t even given himself time to grieve his murdered family as he tried to get away. They’re just lucky the demons hadn’t pursued after Oikawa further, probably thinking he would perish on his own or that he wasn’t worth the extra effort._

_Well, fuck them._

_He cupped the demon’s cheek, stroking the soft skin in a soothing gesture. “I’ll be right here.”_

_Many of the people, human and demon and supernatural alike, of this land had learned to carry the burden of their leaders in silence, while others had tried their best to get rid of them with little success. And when Hajime and his King came with offers of help and safety and peace, with Oikawa’s name and story and their army of volunteers, he understood their initial weariness. They weren’t the first group supposedly offering a solution, not the first to try and usurp the demons. They were also a group made up of outsiders, border dwelling folks who aligned with no Kingdom specifically no matter that they technically lived in one Kingdom or another, brought on for the good of the cause, Hajime included._

_But they had proven true to their words and overthrew the awful tyrants (much to the demons’ disbelief. How could some stupid demon Prince have survived after all this time, Hajime bet they were thinking. How could this pathetic whelp defeat their armies and storm in so easily? Bound and gagged as they were on the floor, they were defenseless against Oikawa as he prowled towards them, all elegant and homicidal grace. It had taken them months to get all of the blood and ichor out of the cracks in the cobblestones.)_

_The castle seized and the leaders eliminated, they began fixing everything that had gone wrong in the Kingdom due to neglect or twisted decrees made by the demons. The sacrificial tribute was the first thing to go, Hajime made sure of it, sending his knights to escort the grateful villagers back to their homes with the message that tribute was no longer required. People still stop them in the streets to thank them for it. They worked swiftly and tirelessly to establish Oikawa’s claim, hoping that surrounding nations would not take advantage of the burgeoning leadership (later, much later, they find out that even some of their neighbors had been trying to work out a way to overthrow the tyrannical reign without it escalating to a full blown war, thankful and encouraging to Oikawa’s cause when he proved to be successful). Anyone who had worked in the castle during the demons’ reign was investigated thoroughly, either kept on, sent away, or arrested for treason. The whole transition of power involved a lot more politics than Hajime liked or was familiar with, but Oikawa seemed to take to it like a duck in water. Staff were hired from neighboring villages, the court was reorganized to fit Oikawa’s tastes, feasts were hosted, trading markets and routes within the Kingdom that had gone to disuse were reopened. They even invited representatives from each of the villages to the castle to get a better idea of how to help each one rebuild and flourish._

_And Hajime was there for all of it, at Oikawa’s side, his constant shadow, offering advice on the things he understood and deferring to Oikawa when he was out of his element._

_With their own people fully installed in the area and increasing every day as more people volunteer to join in, to be trained by Hajime and to fight for their new King, it should only be a matter of time before they are finally able to reunite the rest of the Kingdom. Unfortunately, there are still obstacles that must be overcome, there is still work that has to be done._

_Many villages are staunchly against having another demon ruler, even if this one is the true heir to the throne and not hell-bent on eradicating the human population. They protest through their representatives, but they don’t appear to be violent. Diplomatic envoys have been employed to try and negotiate their acceptance back into the Kingdom as Hajime doesn’t believe force is the answer with this group._

_Another great faction of people, avid supporters of the previous harsh regime, have also been organizing various rebellions and orchestrating the murder of many of the Kingdom’s more prominent human citizens. For this, Hajime advices force, preferably lethal._

_And Hajime had thought the both of them were in agreement here, that Oikawa likewise felt the righteous need for justice against the violent group while the much tamer dissenters didn’t require such harsh handling. But apparently not._

_The rest of the court had filtered out ages ago, leaving the two childhood friends where they were, Oikawa on his throne, Hajime at his right hand side._

_He looks at his King, his liege, his everything, and he can’t help but wonder what else the demon has been hiding from him._

_“I don’t know what you’re talking about—”_

_“Don’t play dumb with me, Oikawa. I know you ordered the attack on that village. Since when is being a vocal, non-violent protester worthy of such punishment? This isn’t exactly a step in the right direction,” Hajime grinds out, seething. He paces to stand in front of the demon King and glares at him._

_“Don’t put this all on me, Iwa-chan. There were whispers that they were more than what they seemed, more than some vocal, non-violent group. They were preparing for a full-fledged rebellion, with most of the village in league with them,” Oikawa says plainly, not even sparing Hajime a glance, which no. He’s not about to put up with this shit._

_With a growl of frustration, he moves right into the King’s space and grabs his arm, demanding he acknowledge him. “Why didn’t you tell me that? You should have told me your plans from the beginning so I wouldn’t have been in the dark, so I could have helped you. You made me look like an idiot today.”_

_And he had, the rest of the court well aware of the whens and whys, while Hajime had been in the dark._

_“Don’t touch me,” the King says, pushing Hajime back some with his magic. Hajime’s too startled for a second to even say anything. Oikawa’s never used his power on him, not even once in all the time they’ve known each other these last twelve years. Oikawa stands up, brushing off his robes. “You shouldn’t be so familiar with me.”_

_It takes a second, but Hajime is eventually able to find his voice, strained with the tightening of his throat. “What the hell are you talking about?”_

_“Just because we sort of grew up together doesn’t mean you deserve special treatment,” Oikawa says with a casual shrug. “You’re my Knight, my right hand, and while any advice given is appreciated, I do not have to follow it, nor do I need to run all of my plans past you. I am ruler of this land, the Grand King. My word is law, and it is final.”_

_“That’s bullshit!” Hajime shouts, his limbs stiff with tension. “Are you listening to yourself? You don’t honestly believe all that crap do you?”_

_“You’re dismissed, Knight.” Oikawa waves a hand. He doesn’t even turn to look at him as he does so, instead peering through one of the large windows out into the courtyard at the front of the castle._

_“You’ve been listening to those people again, haven’t you? The ones saying you’re weak because of our friendship, that you’re not a proper demon or some other bullshit.” Hajime clenches his fists. “Well, they’re wrong—they’ve always been wrong—”_

_“You’re dismissed,” the King interrupts sharply._

_“No! We’re hashing this out now. I can’t trust you if you keep going behind my back with things like this.”_

_“If you can’t trust me, then leave!”_

_“I won’t! I made a vow to you, to stay by your side, and pledged my sword to your service—”_

_“I am no longer in need of your service. I release you from your vow of fealty,” Oikawa hisses, his red eyes flashing._

_Something in Hajime cracks, something small and fragile and important, but he pushes on anyway, says through the pounding in his ears, “You don’t mean that—I know you don’t mean that, Tooru.”_

_“Leave!” the King roars, and a wave of energy sends Hajime flying out of the throne room and skidding across the floor, the door slamming shut behind him with finality._

 

 

Hajime sits up fast, his heart pounding in his throat. A headache lances behind his eyes, coiling in his temples. He stumbles out of bed and into clothes, writes a note to his parents that he went on an early morning run, don’t worry, and heads over to the train station.

All along, the demon boy was… Oikawa? What? He doesn’t understand.

All he knows right now is that he needs to go out to that fucking field, heedless of the tentative rays of light from the rising sun or the fact that he will probably be late to school. He wants—no he _needs_ answers now.

It feels like it takes forever, but he eventually makes it to his stop, and he sprints through the station, down the street, and into the woods towards the clearing. He almost trips and plows into the ground several times, his slippered feet (and fuck, he didn’t realize until now that he’s wearing slippers of all things) catching on roots every other second, but it isn’t long until he’s there, standing in front of that first gravestone he’d discovered, the one he’s pretty sure marks the grave of his King, of the Oikawa from centuries ago.

“What’s happening?!” He demands, frantically, but the stone does not speak nor does anything else in the field. It’s then, after all of these months of stress and confusion, that Hajime finally just gives in and breaks down, dropping to his knees, his forehead resting on the crumbling stone. “Please,” he whispers, his voice cracking.

But there is no answer.


	5. Chapter 5

_When he first heard that the Grand King had captured the Princess of the neighboring Kingdom of Karasuno, he doesn’t believe it. He just rolls his eyes, rumors these days, and continues drinking the spiced mead he was indulging in after a long day’s work of escorting some important village dignitary to a neighboring village for diplomatic reasons._

_It’s been a few months since that awful encounter, since Hajime had left Seijoh with only the clothes on his back, his armor, and his sword (the sword Oikawa had given him, bashful and hopeful all at once, the night after his initiation as a knight during the traditional fealty ritual he’d asked for). He’s angry all the time, and hurt and so exhausted, simultaneously missing his friend and bitter that he was cast aside so easily, but he does his best to help out those who need it while he wanders through the borders of the Kingdoms, flitting around the patrols he had set up himself, the Knights he had trained._

_(It’s kind of sad how easily he does it, and he decides he will drastically revamp the system when he finally returns to the castle because he will go back eventually, they just both need time to cool off, and Hajime is too stubborn to let Tooru go.)_

_When he runs into a teen warrior named Hinata Shouyou in the woods one day, he starts to reconsider the rumors after all._

_Hinata is closely followed by infamous archer and bane to Oikawa’s existence Kageyama Tobio (apparently, they used to know each other before Seijoh was taken over? He’s never really bothered to ask for further clarification seeing as Oikawa gets really worked up over that entire part of his past) and a white wizard named Kozume Kenma. It’s when he finds out that this small band of misfit teens is questing to save Princess Yui from, of fucking course, the Grand King that he decides it’s way past time to return and knock some sense into Oikawa._

_He’s finally gone off the deep end and he needs to be reined back in as soon as possible._

_Hajime offers the group his services because it’s the least he can do to try and make up for Oikawa being a dumbass, and that way, he has more of an excuse to go back. He can help get the Princess returned to her Kingdom, and then he can finally confront Oikawa._

_“Iwaizumi Hajime?”Hinata’s face is full of wonder and excitement. He’s practically vibrating in place. “You mean your Iwaizumi Hajime, the Knight who led the campaign to reinstate the rightful King to Aoba Johsai? That’s so cool!”_

_“Um?”_

_Kageyama jumps in, jabbing a finger in Hajime’s direction. “He’s also in league with the Grand King. You know, the one who took the Princess to begin with?”_

_“Oh, yeah!” Hinata rearranges his face into one of weariness._

_“I’m a man of honor. I have no reason to want or need to betray you,” Hajime says. “Just leave the Grand King to me, and I’ll help you rescue your Princess.”_

_The archer and warrior share a look and then glance back to the wizard, who shrugs and mutters, “He’s telling the truth.”_

_“Okay!” Hinata shouts, putting out his hand to shake. “Welcome to the team!”_

_The group accepts him without any other issues, and he makes sure to pull his own weight as they travel. He starts teaching the shorter warrior the basics of knighthood when he asks one night, having been watching Hajime practice different stances with a look of intense interest. He’s not half bad, when push comes to shove, but he definitely has a long way to go before he’ll be on Hajime’s level of proficiency. All the while, the dark haired archer keeps an eye on them both, or should he say Hinata, the affection and protectiveness shared between them painfully obvious even to Hajime, who has been told he can be a bit oblivious at times._

_He uses their nights by the campfire to get to know the group a bit, in part because there’s really nothing else to do except brood, but also because he’s genuinely curious about these young people going off to save a princess._

_They trade stories before bed almost every night, sitting around the campfire Kozume coaxes into life with a spell. He finds out about Hinata’s dream to be one of the greatest warriors in Karasuno (“I may be short, but that doesn’t mean I can’t fight!”), laughs over the tales of the silly antics him and Kageyama have gotten up to in the past, hears of how Hinata and Kozume first met._

_(“We were both lost in this really big town market.”_

_“Only you were lost Shouyou,” the wizard murmurs fondly.)_

_He tells them about growing up to be a knight, about a boy he saved from being beaten up by some village jerks._

_“That boy was Oikawa-sama, wasn’t he?” Kageyama asks one night. Kozume and Hinata had gone off into the woods to scout ahead, leaving him and the archer alone. Kageyama is much more solemn and quiet without his other half around._

_“Yes.”_

_Kageyama hums, staring into the fire with a focus that reminds Hajime of Oikawa._

_“You used to know him, before,” Hajime states._

_“Yes.”_

_“He’s mentioned you once or twice, but I was never sure how you fit into it all.”_

_“My parents worked in the castle as royal advisors for a couple years before we moved to Karasuno with the King’s blessing, so I was lucky enough to be taught by the same tutor as Oikawa-sama while we lived at the castle. We often lectured together.” Kageyama paused, then quietly added, “He was incredible.”_

_“Yeah. He still is, even if he’s being a dumbass right now.”_

_The archer turns his piercing gaze on Hajime. “You’re still loyal to him, even now,” he says, voice plain and without any sort of accusation._

_“I am. He’ll always be my King, even when he’s being an idiot.” He shrugs slightly. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t or won’t help you guys with your quest. Sometimes, being loyal means telling your liege when he’s in the wrong, and I plan on doing so with force if necessary.” He says, smirking._

_Kageyama blinks and then nods, like he’s taking note for future reference._

_With a laugh, Hajime shakes his head, slapping the archer on the back in_ _camaraderie_ _._

_It’s not long before they’re joined by Aone, a fighter from the Iron Wall of Date Tech, one of the neighboring territories to the west of Aoba Johsai and Karasuno. Hinata had supposedly called on him for help a few weeks ago when the initial three teens first set out. He doesn’t say much, which is a pleasant change after walking around with Hinata and Kageyama for two weeks. It’s always strangely too quiet though when the two balls of energy run off to do some competitive thing, leaving Hajime with Kozume and Aone._

_The few conversations Hajime has with Aone are short but polite and are usually focused on the nature of the diplomatic relations between Dateko and Seijoh. Hajime always comes away from them feeling hopeful for the future, new ideas coming to mind to help Oikawa get the Kingdom he deserves._

 

 

 

He’s been avoiding Oikawa.

Strangely enough, the setter seems to be avoiding him too, though he honestly doesn’t care all that much as to why right now.

He’d spent hours out there, crying and grieving into the stone, the grave of his King—no, the grave of the Knight’s King—asking for answers without getting a reply. And it’s been days since then, but Hajime still acutely feels the hollow ache the Knight had felt when his King, his _Oikawa_ , had thrown him out. He goes out to the clearing after school now instead of going to Oikawa’s for homework, continues his work on trimming down the plant growth and moving stones. He borrows a lawn mower at one point and, in a fit of misplaced anger, mows over half the field, cutting down hundreds of the little, delicate flowers. He regrets it as soon as he turns the blasted machine off, feeling all the worse for it, so he goes out of his way to be extra gentle and encouraging to those buds still remaining.

At one point, he breaks his routine of silent determination and just starts talking. He talks about his life, about his parents and school and volleyball. He doesn’t talk about Oikawa for the first week, somehow working stories around the setter, which really is quite difficult the majority of the time. All of Hajime’s stories, from his childhood until now, prominently feature him in some form or another.

Realizing this leads to a small existential crisis because who _is_ he without Oikawa? He’s his parent’s son, but he’s also a pseudo son to the Oikawa’s and Oikawa to the Iwaizumi’s. He’s an ace, but he’s Oikawa’s ace. He probably wouldn’t have gotten into volleyball at all if it wasn’t for eight year old Oikawa’s enthusiasm and pouting. He likes bugs and Godzilla, but for all that Oikawa thinks they’re nasty and/or dorky, he would come out and search through the bushes for beetles with Hajime, went to all the monster movies with him, humoring Hajime good-naturedly, the way Hajime does for Oikawa and _his_ interests. Is there even a Hajime without him? Is there a Knight without his King? He doesn’t know.

Luckily, his mother helps him solve this problem one evening, probably noticing how off he’s been lately.

“Of course you’re your own person, Hajime.” His mother washes another dish and hands it to him to dry.

“No, I mean, would I still be me if I hadn’t met Oikawa?”

“Well, I don’t know. You’ve been in each other’s lives for so long, I don’t think you would be the exact same if you hadn’t met Tooru-kun when you did.” She hums, pausing in her scrubbing of a particularly stubborn plate. “But if I’m honest, I think what makes you inherently Hajime would still be the same. You might like different things, you might have ended up in a different place, but you still would have been the kind, caring, handsome young man you are now.” She smiles at him, the one he’d inherited, and he can’t help but hug her, suds and all.

“Thanks, Mom,” he murmurs into her shoulder.

“Oh Hajime, it’s no problem at all.” She rubs gently at his back. “I’m so proud of you and the man you’ve become.”

“Agh, Mom. You’re such a flatterer.” He jokes, his ears burning in a mix of embarrassment and genuine happiness (he has the greatest Mom ever).

She laughs, drawing back. “Now, let’s finish these dishes.”

When he visits the field the next day, he finally lets himself talk about Oikawa, and everything just comes rushing out, his frustration over his feelings, how he doesn’t feel worthy of someone like Oikawa, a bright shining star, but that he wants Oikawa to take him anyways. That makes him feel better, and though he still can’t quite meet Oikawa’s eyes, he has started actively seeking the setter out again. He offers the teen milk bread and a quiet apology, because this Oikawa didn’t throw him out on his ass like he was nothing and he should do well to remember that, that this Oikawa and the King he pledged his life to aren’t the same, just as the Knight isn’t Hajime.

Whatever was keeping Oikawa from him seems to have also been resolved, whatever it was, because he takes them out for agedashi tofu the next night, though he still seems skittish sometimes, his eyes probing whenever he looks at Hajime. When he’s a little more sure of himself, Hajime’ll probably ask after that, but for now, he leaves it, still tender and vulnerable from everything.

 

 

 

_About a mile out from the castle walls, they’re attacked._

_“What’s going on?” Hajime hears Hinata yell, almost frantic, the poor thing, but he can’t see the warrior through the strange, unnatural fog that has suddenly rolled in. He has an idea of who it is, but he can’t be sure._

_“I don’t know but I can’t see shit!” That’s Kageyama, sounding irritated but unharmed._

_There’s a crack and a shout, this one unnatural and haunting. Demons._

_Hajime draws his sword, carefully keeping an eye out for any sort of movement. A shriek comes from the left and he just barely dodges as a black and pink blur rushes by and disappears again into the fog._

_“What was that?”_

_“What was what?” Kageyama sounds closer than he was before, though he still can’t see him._

_There’s a thumping noise and a pained grunt on his right where he last saw Aone, but the voice is too high and frenzied to be the silent fighter. He must have gotten a hit in. Hajime doesn’t have any idea where Kozume got off to, but he hopes the wizard is okay, hiding somewhere in a safe place where he can cast spells to aid them in this fight._

_“Where is everyone?!”_

_“It’s okay, Hinata! Just try and keep calm, and stay where you are,” Hajime advises, moving towards where he thinks the younger teen is. That’s better said than done, however. One of the demons begins cackling, long winded and terrifying, and he can hear them swooping through the air nearby, probably messing with the shortest member of their party if Hinata’s cry of fear is any indication._

_“Yeah, dumbass! Keep calm!”_

_“I_ am _calm!”_

_“Leave!” A disembodied voice screeches._

_“Yeah—don’t come any closer!” Another one cries. It’s like they’re on every side of them._

_“Woah!” Hajime manages to bring his sword up just in time to deflect the swipe Hinata had made at him, rash in his panic._

_“Oh geez! I’m so sorry, Iwaizumi-san!” Hinata flails a bit, nearly taking off Hajime’s head in the process._

_“It’s fine! Just watch what you’re doing,” Hajime says, keeping an eye out for another one of those demons._

_“Iwaizumi-san?” A familiar, distinctly feminine voice echoes clear through the dense fog. Just as quickly as it had come, the fog dissipates. Kageyama immediately runs over to them, arrow notched and strung on his bow, ready to be released. Aone and Kozume make their way over at a more leisurely pace. No one seems to have any visible injuries, just a bit of ruffled clothing, which is more than Hajime could have hoped for._

_His mouth twisted into a frown, he looks up to the floating figure above them, her whip dangling in her hands. “Kiyoko-san.”_

_She tilts her head to the side, light glinting off her glasses._

_“Hey, punk! Don’t speak so casually to Kiyoko-sama!” One of the demons shouts from behind her, his skin deathly pale and striking against the pink splotch in his spiked hair. Another growls something low and menacing under his breath, scrubbing a restless hand over his buzzed head. Beside him, Hinata and Kageyama tense up._

_“Enough,” Kiyoko says softly. Immediately, the two servants back off, whispering worshipfully amongst themselves about how cool, how collected and regal their mistress is._

_“What is she?” Hinata whispers, face turning red, gaze barely leaving her as she drifts down closer to them._

_“A succubus,” Hajime says with a grimace. Seijoh is lucky she’s on their side, more or less._

_“Woah, that’s so cool!”_

_“No, it’s not!” Kageyama says, glaring at her._

_She ignores the two of them, passing them by with nary a glance, and stops in front of Hajime, eyebrows raised. “You’ve finally come,” she says, blunt and to the point._

_Hajime sighs, finally relaxing out of his fighting stance and putting his sword away. “Yeah.”_

_She nods faintly, like Hajime’s done something acceptable. “Good.” And she disappears, her lackeys pulling faces at them even as they fade away into thin air._

_“Who was she?” Kozume quietly asks when they finally start remaking their way towards the castle._

_“Her name’s Kiyoko Shimizu, and she’s one of Oikawa’s strongest allies in this Kingdom. She’s one of the guardians of the castle, and few who cross her live to tell the tale,” Hajime says, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. “She doesn’t care for Oikawa’s bullshit though, so we’ve always gotten along pretty well.” He shrugs._

_“Wow!” Hinata yells, stars practically glittering in his eyes. Judging by the pulsing vein in his temple, Kageyama is verging into jealous territory._

_“Is she going to come back and stop us?” the archer asks, mouth tight, his bow still notched, ready to be strung at a moment’s notice._

_“Nope. She wants Oikawa to get his head out of his ass same as I do.”_

_“Oh. Okay.”_

_They make it to the wall surrounding the castle without any further problems, though Hajime notices a startling lack of people bustling around outside and inside the wall. Usually, the castle grounds is a hub of activity and energy, the market just on the interior of the wall crowded with people of all shapes and races. Either things are worse than Hajime thought or Oikawa knew they were coming and specifically evacuated the premises (because even when he’s being a dumbass, he still cares about his people). It’s vaguely disturbing._

_As they make their way into the empty castle, Hajime’s beginning to think it’s the later._

_“Hello?” Hajime calls, his voice echoing down the long corridor. He draws his sword, treading carefully, half-expecting some kind of welcoming party of the violent variety._

_“I can sense the Princess. She’s in one of the towers on the eastern part of the castle,” Kozume says._

_They all nod, jogging through the different halls with Hajime taking the lead. Hinata and Kageyama flank him on either side, their weapons drawn, eyes darting all over the place. Kozume and Aone take up the rear. They slow to a stop near the doors to the throne room when he finds he can’t go any farther. He’s pretty sure Oikawa is inside, likely expecting some kind of dramatic attack from their merry band. If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have removed all of the staff and representatives of the court._

_He frowns._

_“I’ll take care of Oikawa,” he says._

_“Hey, wait,” Hinata whispers heatedly. “That’s not the plan.”_

_“Plans change.”_

_Hinata opens his mouth to argue, but he stays silent when Kageyama brushes a hand over his elbow without looking away from Hajime. The two teens share a glance, and then Kageyama nods._

_“You guys go rescue your Princess. I’ll see you later.”_

_Hinata huffs but he nods all the same. Aone bows his head as he passes, but Kozume stops in front of him, peering up at him with golden eyes._

_“Tell Kuro to meet us in the tower the Princess is being held in. We’ll need his help releasing her from her bonds.”_

_Hajime blinks. “Who’s Kuro?”_

_“You’ll know him when you see him,” Kozume says, unconcerned. “Goodbye.”_

_Hajime watches the wizard trail after the rest of their little group of misfit questers. When they’ve finally disappeared behind a corner, he shakes his head. They’re definitely a nice group, but they’re also very strange. But he’s pretty strange too, he thinks, after all, he befriended and fell in love with a demon._

_Hajime goes to push the doors open with one hand, still clutching his sword in the other, but they swing open of their own accord. His mouth twists, but he steels himself and takes a step forward._

_Immediately, Oikawa’s voice booms throughout the room, the demon himself nowhere in sight. “Now, what do we have here?! Questers seeking to rescue the lovely Princess of Karasuno? Pity you have all come for nothing!” Que cackling._

_Hajime’s eyebrow twitches. How could he have forgotten how melodramatic the stupid idiot is? He composes himself and shouts, “They’re not here, Oikawa. Show yourself!”_

_“What?!” Oikawa darts out from behind his throne, nearly tripping on his cloak, and when he sees that Hajime is right, he crosses his arms, complaining, “What the hell? Don’t they know there’s a certain kind of etiquette with these kinds of things? No one knows how to properly complete a quest anymore.”_

_“They must be headed right for the Princess.” A tall man in red and black steps out, horns sticking out of his ridiculous bedhead, petting absentmindedly at the opaque crystal ball cradled in the hollow of his elbow. He must be a dark wizard. Where the hell did Oikawa find a dark wizard?_

_“Let’s go meet them! Transport us there, Tetsu-chan!” Oikawa demands._

_“Um—”_

_“Are you Kuro?” Hajime asks, scowling. He swings his sword onto his shoulder, a subtle threat and also because he’s… jealous and a little posturing wouldn’t hurt. But honestly, who the fuck does Oikawa think he is? Has he replaced Hajime with this… jerk?_

_The man blinks at him, as if noticing him for the first time. His face shifts into one of amusement. “Oh~! You must be the infamous Iwa-chan!”_

_Hajime swallows down his irritation, ignores the sliver of curiosity (because what could the guy possibly mean by that?) and asks again, “Are you Kuro?”_

_“Yes, I am!”_

_“Well, White Wizard Kozume requests your services with the Princess,” he grinds out._

_“Kozume? Ah! You mean Kenma!” The wizard’s face seems to brighten just at the mention of the quiet teen. Hajime didn’t have anything to worry about after all. Kuro turns to Oikawa, waving a hand. “Well, I’m off! Duty calls.” And he disappears._

_“What duty?! Tetsu-chan, come back here!” Oikawa shouts into the empty room, voice shrill. When nothing happens, he huffs, “You can’t find good help these days.”_

_Hajime crosses the wide expanse of the throne room, the heels of his boots clicking on the floor. He knows Oikawa knows he’s here by the rigid casualness of his stance, how he’s purposefully looking everywhere except at him. He stops at the bottom of the steps to the throne and asks, “You’re not going to throw me out again, are you?”_

_“Hm? Oh, no.” He’s still not looking at him._

_“Oikawa.”_

_“Well, if that’s it, I guess I should call everyone back—”_

_“Oikawa!”_

_“What?!” Oikawa whips around, finally meeting Hajime’s eyes. “What do you want?”_

_“I want to know why you did this—why you captured the Princess, why you sent that attack on the village even though I know you weren’t planning on doing that. Everything,” he says, clenching his fists._

_“It doesn’t matter!”_

_“Of course it matters, Oikawa. Innocent people could have gotten hurt! You could have started a war!”_

_“Maybe that’s what I want,” the demon King says, his brows furrowed._

_“Somehow, I doubt the boy who cried when I accidently squished a bug would want people to get hurt if they didn’t deserve it.”_

_“I’m a demon! Of course I want people to hurt. It’s in my nature—”_

_“Bullshit!” Hajime leaps up the short set of stairs in a single bound, sheathing his sword in one smooth motion, and putting himself into Oikawa’s personal space. Heat radiates off of his body, his demon blood always running hotter than a normal human’s. He seizes Oikawa tightly by the arms. He’s spent a good deal of his sort of exile thinking about why things had turned out the way they did, and he has a hunch, but he wants Oikawa to say it for himself. “What’s the real reason, Oikawa? Tell me.”_

_Oikawa stares at him, eyes unreadable, then, it’s like a dam breaking. “I’m an awful king. The humans hate me because I’m a demon, and the demons hate me because I’m too soft. I’m weak—”_

_“No, you’re not Oikawa.”_

_“Yes I am, Hajime! You have too much sway over me, too much power. If I can’t please the humans, at least I can try and please my own kind. But why would they follow a tamed demon?”_

_Hajime scowls, moving to take Oikawa’s face in his palms and giving his head a shake. “You’re hardly tame, Oikawa.”_

_“That’s not the point!”_

_“Then what is?”_

_“I’m just—I’m not strong enough!” By this point, Oikawa’s mouth has started to pucker the way it does when he’s about to cry, and sure enough, his red eyes have gone all misty. In a fit of frustration, he does the only thing he can think of to break Oikawa out of this: he slams his forehead into Oikawa’s face._

_If he can’t get through this with words, he’ll get through it with actions._

_“What the hell, Hajime?!” the demon yells, clutching at his bleeding nose._

_“I’m only going to say this once, Oikawa, and I want you to listen good,” Hajime says, grimacing through the pain in his forehead (dammit, why does Oikawa have to have such a hard head). “You’re an amazing king, when you’re not being a dumbass like now. But I can forgive you that this time—”_

_“Hey—”_

_“Don’t interrupt me!” He cuts in, dropping his hands to clutch at the demon’s shirt. “You’re strong, but you know what? You may be the King, but you’re not alone! You don’t have to go through this on your own. You have the rest of your guard, and Mattsun and Makki and Yahaba and everyone, all people loyal to you and your vision, people you can depend on and draw strength from!”_

_“But do I have you? You left—you abandoned me!” Oikawa pushes closer, face frantic and searching, blood dripping freely down his chin to the floor between them._

_Hajime’s face flushes, but he says, “Of course you have me, Oikawa! I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t! And besides, you were the one who sent me away. I wouldn’t have left of my own volition.” Oikawa seems somewhat placated by this, but it will only be temporary, Hajime knows, and he needs to get through all of Oikawa’s doubts and insecurities. It’s now or never._

_He produces a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully cups Oikawa’s face in his hands, dabbing at the blood apologetically. He takes a deep breath, his face going hotter as he draws on all of his courage and says, soft but fierce, “Dammit Tooru, you’ve had me since the day we met. You’ll always have me. Forever.”_

_“Hajime,” it comes out coarse, the tears finally spilling over, red eyes wide._

_“Tooru,” he says, his own voice gone uneven in anticipation of the hurt he’s likely to feel when Oikawa rejects him. He thumbs along the wet swell of his cheek, fingers trembling, savoring the opportunity while he has the chance._

_They stare at each other for a minute, Oikawa frozen, Hajime resigned. Then, Oikawa laughs, this jagged, hiccupping thing, and Hajime’s heart drops into the pit of his stomach—how cruel could Oikawa be_ —

_The King wraps his arms around Hajime, pulling him closer until there isn’t even air between them. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear that,” he confesses quietly._

_“What—”_

_But he needn’t have worried after all, because Tooru is beaming wide and sincere and so, so beautiful, dragging Hajime into a kiss that has been years in the making._

 

 

The morning he wakes up, face flushed and grinning, giddy and so in love he’s practically glowing, is the day he starts talking about his dreams as he yanks up weeds and tends to the flowers and lugs stones around into some semblance of the previous structure (there’s still so much to do, but Hajime has made a sizable dent and it already looks so much nicer than when he first started). He finds that talking aloud makes it easier to sort through all the feelings jumbled in his head, tangled webs of happiness and love and anger that don’t belong to him. He’s finally processing the memories that have taken up residence in his head, tasting the distinctly different flavor of them, dull and hazy compared to his actual memories. He is the Knight, but he also isn’t, and it’s something he tries to accept and learn to deal with.

He talks so much his voice gets scratchy and hoarse, and it seems to help, somehow.

It also gives him the courage to finally properly face and fix up the graves and markers, which he had been avoiding in part because everything else needed a lot more work, but also because it unnerved him. Maybe it’s because someone he subconsciously knew a long time ago is buried there, or perhaps it’s the fact that he’s pretty sure the Knight is buried beside him, and therefore him in a way, but it’s way past time he did something to restore the centuries old stones, planting flowers the books and online articles he’s looked at said grow best in this area that he picked up from a local nursery.

Sometimes, he slips up though, the line between him and Knight blurring, the Knight bleeding into Hajime, and in hindsight, he can remember a few instances even at the beginning that were more the Knight than, well, himself. Instances where he couldn’t explain why he was feeling a certain way or said certain things are explained with every remembered memory. But now that he’s actually aware of it, it becomes a source of frustration. There are times when he tries to say or do something, but his mouth says or his body does something else entirely, and even though it’s not what he had intended, it’s still familiar, at least until he becomes cognizant of it, then it just feels weird.

“Um, Iwaizumi?” Matsukawa raises an eyebrow, staring at him as they walk around the Miyagi marketplace. They’re going out for ramen, one of the last few opportunities the four of them will be free to do so together.

“Is there something you want to tell us?” Hanamaki smirks, hands stuck in the band of his sweats for lack of pockets (though honestly, he’d probably do it even if he had pockets, the weirdo, Hajime thinks fondly).

At his questioning look, Matsukawa nods towards his hand, which is swinging limply by his side… except it’s not? He follows the line of his arm down and out in front of him, his hand clenched in the fabric of Oikawa’s shirt at the base of the setter’s back.

He blinks, recognizing the action as something the Knight picked up after him and the King had gotten together, his way of being a reassuring presence, a silent well of strength for the King to draw on, while also being able to rein the King in if needed, all while being out of sight. He slowly releases the creased cloth. The setter doesn’t seem to have noticed anything either way, but he can’t stop the heat that floods his face. Embarrassed, he just shakes his head, waving off his friends inquiring looks.

A lot of his slip ups involve Oikawa actually, which really shouldn’t shock Hajime, honestly, the Knight and the King were a thing and the King and Oikawa are almost the same person, minus a few defining features and life experiences, just like Hajime and the Knight, so yeah. He keeps finding his hands on Oikawa in some way of their own volition, like it’s instinct to just reach for him and hold on to him for longer than necessary, a hand in the small of his back, fingers buried in the curls tangled at his nape, a gentle caress along his side just to say hello, cupping his elbow to get his attention. He keeps ending up close to him, standing near him, sitting so their arms and thighs touch in a heated seam, closer than he would normally even let himself be for fear of slipping up, of giving away too much. Hajime had already been doing some of those things before he had remembered his past life (maybe, that’s Hajime’s current guess), but the frequency increases the more Hajime remembers the Knight and King’s relationship.

He’s still not remembering every little thing, at least not in his dreams (he doesn’t think he actually remembers _everything_ , but he certainly can think back on moments he knows he hasn’t dreamt before, other memories filtering in over the course of the day), but he dreams enough.

“Fuck,” Hajime groans miserably into his pillow, trying not to move too much or risk spreading the sticky mess in his pants. It’s nice to know where all those wet dreams from before were coming from, but at the same time, it’s mortifying with the whole ‘simultaneously experiencing the act and being a voyeur to it too.’

He had no idea Oikawa could bend that way, or rather the King, but now that he thinks about it, the setter is kind of stretchy and flexible? Agh. He scrubs a hand over his face.

Carefully, he gets out of bed and strips it down before trudging to the shower.

Over the next two weeks, Hajime dreams of years’ worth of memories. He remembers the diplomatic mission to Date Tech and introducing Oikawa to the silent Aone, who was not only a fighter, but also a member of the Dateko court (surprise surprise), and the mission to Karasuno. The blow out from Oikawa seeing Kageyama again was intense for everyone involved, but Hajime managed to talk some sense into his King, and they were able to leave the land of the crows with a new ally and forgiveness for kidnapping their Princess. He remembers meetings with representatives from all over Aoba Johsai, trying to work out some sort of compromise between feuding villages, making sure each one had everything they needed to function properly. He remembers all the nights he and Oikawa spent in their rooms, exploring each other’s bodies by way of flickering candles, figuring out the best ways to make the other laugh, and gasp, and moan.

_“You’re really amazing, you know that?” the Knight asks at one point, scraping his teeth in the crease of Oikawa’s groin._

_The demon laughs, shaky and low. “What?”_

_Hajime hums, sliding back up Oikawas’s body to cup his cheek and press his mouth to his, flicking his tongue into the curved corners, chasing the laughter into the bow of his lip._

_They sigh into the kiss, passionate and unreserved, taking it deeper, gripping each other tighter. Their smiles make it difficult to kiss properly, but he’s not too worried. They have all the time in the world right now, so he kisses Oikawa over and over before they finally get it right. He moves to trace over the line of his jaw then, mouthing down the elegant curve of his neck, nipping and sucking just enough to leave a mark. When Hajime ducks his head and bites down on the sensitive skin where the demon’s neck meets his shoulder, Oikawa jolts, his hips bucking up against Hajime’s thigh, a sigh tapering off into a gasp as his nails rake down Hajime’s spine in burning lines._

_Hajime draws back to survey his work, pressing his thumb into the purplish bruises starting to surface, and he looks at him, his friend, his King, debauched and ruffled and they haven’t even gotten started yet. His pupils have almost completely taken over the red of his eyes. Hajime kisses him, soft and lingering. “You’re amazing.”_

_Oikawa’s eyes widen a bit, his throat bobbing as he swallows. Suddenly, he grins, wicked and fanged, shifting until he can pull Hajime properly into the cradle of his thighs, easy like a puzzle piece slotting into place, arching his back so their hips drag together agonizingly slow. They both moan, yanking at each other to get closer, closer, their chests pressed so tightly Hajime can feel the staccato rhythm of Oikawa’s heartbeat, already unnaturally faster than a human’s, answering to his own quick pulse._

_“You’re pretty amazing too,” he says a second later, breathless and beaming, and Hajime laughs helplessly, exhilarated and full of warmth. Then Oikawa palms his ass and winks suggestively, the cheeky moron, so he pinches his side in punishment and drags him up into another kiss, and another, and another, soothing away any complaints with lips and teeth and tongue._

_Oikawa is, has always been, his home, but if he could make a permanent house in Oikawa’s bones, if he could stay with the demon always, forever, he would, and he wouldn’t hesitate a second to make it happen._

He remembers the quieter moments too.

King Oikawa still had his doubts, but ever since that day years ago, they’d never been focused on Hajime. Instead, they’re focused on his ability to rule, to protect the people he’s supposed to keep safe and those he cares about most. He still cared too much about what people thought of him. Hajime had his own fair share of insecurities too (because he’s just a knight, and what’s a knight to a king?), but they were often overshadowed by the overwhelming and exhilarating prospect of spending the rest of his life with the man, well demon, he’d been in love with for most of his life, so how can it be so bad? It’s only thoughts of his mortality, his very real and human mortality, that gets to Hajime, because ultimately, it’s very likely that Hajime will die first. A human’s lifespan is short and sweet compared to a demon’s, and Hajime would be lucky if he lived to seventy considering his duties as a knight, but Oikawa, barring some catastrophic event or disaster, would live for another hundred years after, possibly longer.

_“I know, Hajime,” Oikawa whispers, frowning into the nape of Hajime’s neck. He curls closer into his back, tightening his arms around his Knight’s waist. “I’m willing to take what time I can with you.”_

_“You have to promise me something,” Hajime replies, quiet and rough and sad, clinging to Oikawa’s arms around him._

_“Anything.”_

_“Promise me you’ll keep going after I die, that you’ll live a long, happy life.”_

_Oikawa stiffens up slightly, and Hajime doesn’t know if that means he’d been planning on orchestrating his own death or if he has something else already in the works (and at some point, Hajime will find out what), but the demon nods all the same._

_“I promise.”_

When either of them got into a mood like that, it’s nothing a talk and cuddling won’t fix, if only temporarily. He remembers the fights they had, nothing as bad as the one that sent Hajime away, but still loud and hurtful, picking at each other’s faults. They’d learned how to come back from those stronger for it though. The happy and sad and everything in between, a lifetime of memories at Hajime’s fingertips. But perhaps, the one memory he can’t stop thinking about no matter what he does, the one he’ll never forget, is the memory of his own death.

 

 

 

It shouldn’t surprise Hajime that the Knight died in combat, having been deployed with a small, but elite group of knights to settle the last of the rebellions springing up on the outskirts of the Kingdom. Aoba Johsai was so close to being fully united again after thirty years of the King and his advisors painstakingly putting it back together with the help of his friends and allies, better and stronger than ever, but the Knight would not live to see that final piece fall into place. The last things the Knight recalled were his comrades’ mangled bodies, a flash of light, Oikawa’s bleary, sobbing face, a wave of warmth, then nothing.

Hajime wakes up solemn and heartbroken that morning, unsure of whether he’s the one feeling it or the Knight, that stabbing ache in his side again. He wheezes through the pain, clutching at where the fatal wound had been dealt, tears rolling silently down his cheeks. His body is heavy and his head hurts, like he’s died again, and he’s raw and cracked open and listless. He drops his head into his other hand, trying to breathe through it and motivate himself to get out of bed.

Fuck, he hates this.

His mother hugs him when he finally staggers down for breakfast, touching him gently on the shoulder when he can’t do more than swallow down a few scraps of food. Oikawa takes one look at him and grabs hold of his hand, a tether that Hajime sorely needs, a reminder that it’s not really him that has died. They don’t say anything as they walk to Seijoh’s campus. His friends seem tentative and softer than usual, handling him with care. They know something is wrong, even though they don’t know what. He can see the way they look at each other in concern when he turns down lunch, his stomach roiling. They let him be though. He even overhears Hanamaki coaxing off a girl from another class that wants to speak to him for some reason. What little Hajime can process beyond the crushing sorrow in his gut is appreciative of the gestures.

He can’t bring himself to go to the field that day even though it would probably help him feel better. He just can’t face his King, can’t face _himself_.

Instead, he lets Oikawa steer him into bed when they get to the Iwaizumi residence, sliding in and letting Hajime curl into his chest. He buries his face into the dark hollow of Oikawa’s neck, familiar in more than one way, taking deep breaths.

He never wants to feel this way again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This chapter is in Oikawa's POV!

It’s been a couple days since Iwaizumi had come to school looking like pain and death, an image Tooru couldn’t take centuries ago and likewise hates now. Though, at least it’s not paired with blood oozing out of the maw of a fatal wound. Small mercies.

Tooru tried to coax some sort of explanation from him the next morning when he was warm and blurry and curled into Tooru’s side, the color almost fully returned to his cheeks and his eyes already more lively than the dull, muffled green of the day before, but he wouldn’t tell him what was wrong. Instead, the ace had (sloppily, unsurprisingly) dodged the subject, bringing up school and how they’re almost done with it, only a few weeks left, his hand a desperately cajoling heat over Tooru’s ribs.

And Tooru, a sucker for him on a normal day, was even more so when he was soft and touchy and still recovering from something obviously traumatic. So, he dropped it.

For now.

The thing is, Tooru’s been looking at all of the evidence: Iwaizumi’s weird swings between tired and angry and clingy and distant to how the ace has been having trouble meeting his eyes— and honestly, that stings a bit because since when has Iwaizumi, dependable and unyielding in the face of Tooru’s bullshit since they met, been afraid to meet Tooru’s gaze head on?— to Iwaizumi’s sudden reappearance in his bed at night and his in Iwaizumi’s, at least, until he got fucking lost, which, don’t even get him started on _that_ whole cluster fuck. Tooru may still be a bit pissed about that whole debacle (and if Iwaizumi thinks he can get away with such a half-assed explanation, he has another thing coming, damn it). And then, there’s the ace’s sudden propensity for gardening when the closest thing to interest he’s ever shown to the profession is his strange love of beetles, and now he’s showing up to school, to their hang outs, dirt smudged under his nails because he’s a dirty heathen who’s taken leave of all of his fucking senses, appearing in his doorway just after the sun has set with a straight face and flowers for Tooru’s mother and for _him_ , flowers he only knows about because the _King_ knows about them, the blossoms growing in that blasted field but which he had never seen for himself, in person, until now.

(He keeps them in a delicate, crystal vase on his desk, dutifully changing the water as prescribed by the internet, his eyes catching on the purples and reds and golds of the petals when he least expects it, his mind drawn back to times long past every time.)

And he’s been analyzing all of those strange things that have been happening with Iwaizumi, and he thinks he may know what’s going on.

After all, he’d gone through something similar himself a few years ago.

It’s just—it can’t be a coincidence, can it? Iwaizumi has started dreaming, which he’s purported to never really done before. Something’s up, and he can’t help the little blossom of hope unfolding in his chest because maybe Iwaizumi is finally remembering, after all this time. After all these years.

This could be it.

Finally.

Except, for all that the evidence seems to be pointing in a single direction to a single explanation, he doesn’t want to assume anything, forcibly stamping down on those warm buds of hope, in part because he doesn’t want to fuck this up or hurt Iwaizumi, the part of him that had ruled a Kingdom for over two hundred years equally, if not more, protective of Iwaizumi (even _he_ is occasionally stunned by the sheer depth of emotion the Grand King felt. No wonder demons are portrayed as being these destructive beings, just remembering how volatile he was makes it easy to see), but also because he doesn’t want to let himself hope too much, having been hurt before when Iwaizumi had proved time and time again not to remember anything from before. There have just been so many times in the years since Tooru’s remembered that Iwaizumi did or said something that the Knight would have done or said. It’s just frustrating, and Tooru’s sick of getting upset just because his friend hasn’t remembered some past life they happen to share.

Iwaizumi is still Iwaizumi, is still the boy who tells it to him straight and doesn’t hold back, is still the person he fell in love with when they were fourteen and pimply and starting to get facial hair, whether he remembers his life as a knight or not.

It’s just hard sometimes.

Especially now, when things seem to be pointing to fact that it’s happening, really, truly, _finally_. And Tooru doesn’t know what to do, how to react. He’s spent so long hoping for this, but now that he’s faced with the very real possibility of it, he’s frozen solid and panicking.

Which is why, when Iwaizumi started avoiding him like the plague one random day (his face pale and creased, like he was struggling with something. Three guesses as to what, but here’s a hint: he’s got great hair and an amazing smile), he took it in stride, ignoring his friend right back because dammit, he doesn’t want to get hurt if things turn sour. What if Iwaizumi really is remembering, and he decides he doesn’t want to be friends with someone who was once a possessive demon King, or if he decides it would be too awkward associating with Tooru because he knows what he looks like when he comes, their past lives spent together filled with frequent sexual exploits.

(Even Tooru admits to jerking off to those memories, every detail so clear and high definition and everything he could ever want, better than any fantasy he could have ever thought up himself because it was _real_ and messy and perfect.)

Iwaizumi has always been one of the few people who could genuinely destroy him, could tear him down so easily, and though Oikawa has never regretted letting him in, he can’t help but wish sometimes that Iwaizumi didn’t have that kind of power, that kind of pull over him, a thought which often makes him sigh because wow, him and the King really _are_ similar in a lot of ways. What the hell.

It was only when Iwaizumi came back to him, sad and with his tail between his legs as he offered Tooru his favorite food in the world in apology that he remembers that they’re stronger than that. At least, he hopes so. Man, does he. Life would suck without him.

He rubs at his temples and sighs, feeling the beginnings of a headache coming on, but he ignores it.

In the two days since, though he seems to have gotten better, he’s also proven elusive once school has ended for the day, disappearing off to who knows where right after they get home, begging off from doing homework together like that weird stint a couple weeks ago, with little reason beyond being “tired.” And Tooru’s tried to be understanding, but he’s not even letting him come over later in the day to hang out, long after any homework should be finished. They haven’t had a proper hang out in so long, and Tooru’s beginning to worry that they’re already starting to drift apart, something he’d expected college to be a harbinger of, not now, not because of whatever Iwaizumi is going through.

Tooru’s checked all of his usual haunts: their favorite ramen place, the grocery store, the Seijoh gym, the Iwaizumi household, the Oikawa household, but nothing. He’s got to be going _somewhere_ , but where? He’s sent a couple texts asking after his whereabouts and doesn’t get a response, at least, not until hours later when he is on the cusp of falling asleep. And trying to get straight answers out of Iwaizumi is like trying to squeeze water from a rock, ie. nigh impossible, so Tooru’s had to resort to stalking him out now. It’s the only way to get answers at this point, and he’s done being patient. He’s done waiting.

He’s not going to let them drift apart; he doesn’t think any part of him could take it.

That’s why he’s on a train, a car away from where he can just barely see the vague outline of Iwaizumi sitting. It had been difficult to follow the green eyed teen without getting caught, but maybe there’s still a little something of the demon King’s power in him even though his body isn’t quite the same, because somehow he was able to succeed with minimal effort, sneaking onto the train without Iwaizumi seeing him or noticing his presence.

They’re on the train for half an hour, Iwaizumi staring out the window and Tooru covertly watching and waiting for the ace to get off at a station. When he finally does, Tooru’s stomach drops to his feet.

It can’t be.

Tooru hops off the train just seconds before the doors slide shut and quickly moves behind a sign explaining the different train stops. Iwaizumi doesn’t notice him though, moving rather quickly through the crowds amassed on the platform. He watches him walk out of the station and discreetly follows him at a more sedate and casual pace. They walk up an old road for a little ways, then the spikey haired boy suddenly veers off into the tree line in a practiced move, as if he’s made this trek many times.

Tooru hesitates right outside it, looking into the shaded area beyond, the worn down path.

He hasn’t come here in over a year, not since he decided he was done waiting for Iwaizumi to remember everything.

Tooru thinks of the first time he had stumbled to this place, into that clearing, how he had come to sobbing into this old, crumbling stone and had instinctively known someone he had loved very much was buried there. He hadn’t known at the time that it was the Knight, nor that a him from centuries before was buried beside him, but it seemed to have sparked the return of his memories after weeks of weird half-remembered nightmares and sleepless nights.

Iwaizumi had been such a big help back then too, even though he didn’t understand or really know what was going on. It’s likely that Iwaizumi had brushed off Tooru’s breakdown in their third year at Kitagawa Daiichi to his pride and him struggling against Ushijima and Kageyama. And sure, people like them, people who don’t seem to have to fight for anything (a notion he’s slowly realizing isn’t quite true) really piss him off, and he can’t help but feel like he’s somehow lesser compared to such bright stars as them (as if he’s not a brilliant, talented star in his own right, the voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Iwaizumi says), but they weren’t the only people he was dealing with, in some ways twice over, dammit.

Because as he was remembering this great long life, he couldn’t help but feel inferior to that part of himself, the demon who had ruled a prosperous Kingdom long after his love had left the Earth, the man who invoked so much respect and loyalty, who had all this awesome power and did amazing things with it. It’s hard not to feel unworthy of and small in the face of such a legacy, something Tooru admits only when he’s in his darkest mind, wallowing and brooding, like there’s no way to break through the obstacles that seem to do nothing but limit him. It was even harder for someone at his age, fifteen and already unsure of his abilities as a volleyball player and as a person, to reconcile everything a demon who lived over two centuries felt and did.

So, he’d gone a bit off the deep end, started putting everything into practicing because if he couldn’t beat a him that had been long dead and a demon besides (and how would one even go about trying to defeat a demon?), then he could at least try and crush Ushijima and Kageyama because at least they’re human, and they’re here in the now, alive and breathing, and not relegated to Tooru’s memory and an old grave no one else seemed to know or care about.

But all that did was lead to him spraining his ACL.

He still remembers how scared Iwaizumi had looked when he’d found him in the gym, his face white as a sheet and grave as he checked out Oikawa’s knee. The only other time he can remember the ace looking that way was when the Grand King had been poisoned a few years after they’d gotten together. Luckily, it was only a Grade 1 sprain, which meant he didn’t need surgery, but he did have to use crutches for a little while (grudgingly and only because Iwaizumi yelled at him if he didn’t), complete a strict physical therapy regimen (which Iwaizumi helped him with, hands firm but gentle), and start wearing a brace whenever he wanted to do anything too strenuous as protection against actually tearing it beyond repair.

And in a moment of weakness, a moment where he’d felt utterly useless and vindictive and angry because he had been taken off the court, _he’d been taken off the court_ , him, the demon King—replaced by that genius fucking archer—he’d nearly punched Kageyama in the face. It’s a moment Tooru isn’t particularly proud of and no matter how much he dislikes the boy, no matter how much he pisses him off, he would never have tried to hit him in his right mind, not that that’s an excuse, so he’s always been grateful that Iwaizumi stepped in and literally knocked some sense into him.

“You’re not alone, dumbass,” He’d said on the walk back home, unknowingly echoing the Knight Tooru dreams of loving with the same sort of furiosity he’s loved this boy for over a year.

Tears welled up in his eyes, some sort of residual feeling from the King or maybe because he’s just happy he had Iwaizumi in his life, but he didn’t cry. He blinked the urge away and laughed and grabbed Iwaizumi’s hand, dragging him the rest of the way home, wondering if he remembered their past life too and giddy with the prospect that he did, because how could he not if he’s saying things like that?

At first, he’d avidly waited for any other signs that Iwaizumi might have been more than the boy he’d grown up with, constantly analyzing every little thing his ace did or said, going over everything, every word and gesture with a fine toothed comb the way he does with the practice and game tapes of other volleyball teams. But nothing. The Knight certainly seems to exist within Iwaizumi in some sort of capacity, he can see it in the way he takes care of Tooru and reigns him in when he’s getting to be too much and how he tries to protect him, but it’s more like how Tooru was before he remembered, sharing some characteristics that seem to harken back to his past life, but still his own separate being with distinct differences. He waited for two years, vigilant for any new sign, something to show the return of his, the Grand King’s, Knight, but that sort of hypervigilance was exhausting to keep up, so Tooru eventually let it go, tentatively hoping for someday, but not holding out for it the way he had.

(It’s always strange when he runs into others that featured prominently in his past life: some of his teammates, Chibi-chan and Kageyama, that pair from Nekoma. They pop up into his life in the weirdest ways, and it can be annoying as hell and headache inducing, seeing them in double, the present and past colliding before his very eyes.

He wonders, sometimes, how many of them remember, if they remember anything at all, if they even _can_. Why has the universe thrown them all together again? Is there such a thing as fate, or was it all the King’s doing? Will things just repeat themselves, albeit in weird ways? He doesn’t know, and the panic he feels fluttering under his sternum keeps him from considering that line of thought too often.

It’s just lonely, sometimes, being the only one that he knows who, well, _knows_.)

Tooru takes a fortifying breath and begins to make his way down the worn path, passing his hands idly over the trees ingrained with subtle markings the Grand King had painstakingly dug into them with his nails, filling the grooves with some concoction of blood and herbs even Tooru doesn’t understand the mechanics of. Supposedly they kept the area safe, warded it from evil and from people looking to destroy it. It only let those who meant no harm into this part of the forest, the wards closest to the clearing only allowing those who cared for the King and his Knight to enter there. For those who meant harm, the magic imbued in this place led them in some twisting, turning path that took them several miles around where the clearing was located before turning around and bringing them back to where they started with little memory of the journey and without knowing why they came there.

It’s why this place has gone so largely undeveloped, why the modest funerary temple the Grand King had built wasn’t ever desecrated, though the wards unfortunately didn’t protect against the weather, leaving it all open to the elements, for better or worse.

What was once a beautiful little temple had become overrun by weeds and wild grasses, the structure collapsing under hundreds of years of rain and snow, the stones marking their resting places weathered down to crumbling lumps.

Coming out here has always made him a little sad.

The Grand King had tried to pack as much grandeur as he could into such a small, modest space. He only let a select few in on the project, Kuroo and Kiyoko being the two he brought into help, his Knight bringing in Aone from the Iron Wall of Date Tech and Kuroo’s white wizard paramour, Kenma.

(“You can stop calling me Kozume, you know. I prefer Kenma anyway,” the demon had overheard Kenma offhandedly saying to Iwaizumi one night at a feast thrown for some festival or another. The Knight had spluttered, but went along with it, and Tooru had teased the man endlessly for his brand of overbearing politeness.

“It’s not overbearing—it’s proper!”)

Together, the six of them had built the temple over a span of a couple months, the wizards and Tooru meticulously inscribing spells of protection and peace into every stone before someone slid it into place.

When it was finished, Tooru had taken Iwaizumi inside, hugging him close.

“Isn’t it usually proper to wait until after someone is deceased to make them a grave marker?” Iwaizumi asked, rubbing gently at Tooru’s back.

The King shrugged. “The temple didn’t feel right without them.”

Iwaizumi hummed, letting him go to move to the stones, running his fingers lightly over the smooth surface of the rock. He smirked a little. “Are we going to wait until we actually die to get them inscribed or?”

“Hajime.”

The Knight glanced back up, face apologetic and twisted slightly into a grimace. Joking aside, death was certainly something the both of them struggled with in one way or another. “What?”

“There’s something I want to ask of you,” Tooru said, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. Iwaizumi’s answer could really go in either direction, and he still wasn’t sure if he wanted to risk asking, especially if the man said no. If he said no, then there was nothing Tooru could do, he’d be honor bound and would have to respect his answer. Tooru didn’t know if he could live with that over the alternative.

Iwaizumi hummed, his attention fully on his King, eyebrow raised.

“U-um,” Tooru stuttered out before shaking his head, huffing a slight laugh. Another time. “Do you think we made this place big enough? It’s certainly a little on the small size for a King, especially one as magnificent as me.”

The Knight gave him a strange look, eyes squinted suspiciously. Then, he shrugged.

“It’s fine the way it is. The better to keep your hideous ego contained,” he said and walked out of the temple, clasping Tooru’s shoulder as he passed.

“Iwa-chan!” Tooru squawked.

There was no other time though.

Years later, the King had to send Iwaizumi off on a quest to put down what they thought was the last crops of rebellion. It was quickly apparent to Tooru when the group hadn’t returned within the week he’d allotted to them, without any word at all from them, that something had gone terribly wrong, that blood had likely been spilt, that people were dead. Iwaizumi would have sent a raven by now. There’s a twisting, nauseated sensation in his gut. He hoped he wasn’t right.

“Go get Kuroo now!” He demanded to one of his wary advisors standing nearby, pacing urgently in front of his throne.

“What’s going on—whoa.” The dark wizard startled back a step at the doors to the room, the energy sleuthing off the King palpable and violent, lashing out and ripping things off the walls.

“Send me to him,” he said, tense like a coiled spring, expression unyielding.

“Oikawa-sama,” Kuroo muttered hesitantly, hands up in surrender. “Do you really think this is a good idea?”

“I don’t care!” He didn’t care if his entire Kingdom fell in that moment, he just needed to get to Hajime, had to make sure he was okay. “Just do it!”

The dark haired wizard looked at him for a second, then nodded grimly, frowning and producing his crystal orb from one billowed sleeve. “Where are they?”

“The southern border near Shiratorizawa Nation.”

Tooru doesn’t think the King even remembers what happened next: one second, he’s in the throne room, the next, the hillside was engulfed in pulsing hellfire. He couldn’t tell if the enemy was human, beast, or demon, but he didn’t care, stepping over their smoldering corpses. The earth was scorched and black, the surrounding trees charred and smoking. Ash rained down from the sky like snow. He walked past the limp, barely breathing knights that were once a part of his armed guard, their bodies slowly disappearing as Kuroo transported them one by one directly to the medical quarters back at the castle. His eyes were set solely on the wheezing figure of his damaged Knight.

“Hajime.”

“Hey, handsome,” Iwaizumi gasped out, smirking at him through the blood trickling down his face from his nose, his ears, from the cuts on his forehead. His teeth were stained with it. Bruises were already swelling over the apple of his cheek, the side of his neck as if someone had tried to strangle him.

He should have made them suffer more. He’d been too merciful, killing them all so quickly.

Tooru dropped to his knees, clawing at the Knight’s armor where blood oozed steadily out of his side until he could apply pressure to it, pressing the folds of his cloak to the wound. It quickly soaked through and, frantic, he picked his brain for some magic he could use to fix this, fix him, but his magic laid in chaos and destruction, not healing. No matter how much he tried, he couldn’t force the skin to thread back together. A sob ripped through his throat. What good was he, was all this power, if he couldn’t even save the man he loved?

“H-hey—it’s s’okay.” Iwaizumi brushed his hand over the wet, sooty curve of Tooru’s cheek.

Tooru cupped Iwaizumi’s hand with his own, pressing it more firmly onto his face. “I’ll save you.”

“Don’t worry. S’fine. We knew this would happen one day.”

“But not this soon!” Tooru pressed his face into Iwaizumi’s, uncaring of the blood and gore. Voice muffled, he hugged Iwaizumi tighter and whispered fiercely, “I can’t let you go—I won’t.”

“You don’t have to,” Iwaizumi said, yanking weakly at Tooru until they’re eye level, green eyes focused and determined. “I love you, you know. I know I didn’t say it that often, but I do.”

“I know.” Tooru dragged his mouth over Iwaizumi’s again and again, smearing the tacky blood between them. He said, voice wavering, “Of course I know, you idiot. You didn’t have to say it. I love you too.”

“Don’t—don’t let this keep you from being amazing,” Iwaizumi whispered, breath going fainter.

“I won’t—I promise.”

“Good.” His eyes fell shut, his breath stuttering, stopping.

Tooru had tried researching the two of them once, delving into the depths of every historical source he could get his hands on, online or paper bound, estimating the time the demon King would have ruled. He found little in the way of information, a remark here and there of some golden age experienced by a part of Japan, but not even a mention of the two who created and nurtured it. It’s like the two of them didn’t even exist.

He shakes his head, pausing when he reaches the line of trees surrounding the clearing.

What was once a sad, dilapidated funerary temple overrun by a matted swath of weeds has been transformed, restored in some part to the beauty that Tooru remembers the field once having a long time ago. A lot of the rubble has been cleared away and organized, most of the hundreds of years’ worth of overgrowth removed and trimmed down, the delicate flowers underneath finally getting their time to shine again.

Iwaizumi gave him some of those once. He wouldn’t be surprised if he had something to do with all this.

It doesn’t take long to find him, the space so wide and open all he has to do is rip his gaze from the flowers to where the temple had been, and there he is, hunched over one of the graves, _his_ , the Grand King’s, his skin sun kissed and warm looking, rippling muscle under his tank top as he carefully plants flowers he must have gotten from the nursery a couple blocks from their neighborhood, his hands covered in planting soil. And he’s talking, Tooru realizes when he’s finally able to tear his eyes from the little strip of skin above Iwaizumi’s waistband, these little ranting murmurs it takes Tooru a second to decipher. When he does, all he can do is blink, mind blank.

“—frustrating as hell—like, I understand why you were protective and stuff , but come on, eight knights all to settle a land dispute in the North? It was a waste of their time and the Kingdom’s resources. I needed maybe two, if that.” Iwaizumi runs his arm across his sweaty forehead. Tooru must have taken longer than he thought to get here if he’s already this invested in a rant.

“And it would have been fine if that only happened every once in awhile, but you kept doing it—what about Kyoutani’s campaign in the West? He was a new knight who could have used those extra resources. Or Yahaba and Kunimi’s diplomatic convoy to further negotiate the treaty with Nekoma? All equally important pursuits, more important than the assignments I was on at the time. You shouldn’t have focused so much on me,” he grumbles.

Here he pauses, his face softening, his hands settling gently on one of the blooming buds, and Tooru clutches at the tree he’s hiding behind, his nails digging into the bark. People always complain about how unexpressive Iwaizumi can be, how he always seems to be mad or neutral or serious, but they don’t know him like Tooru does. Iwaizumi is one of the most expressive people he’s ever met, it’s just more subtle. You have to be looking for the intricate nuances found in every slight shift of expression, the minute ticks hidden in the creases by his eyes, in the curl of his mouth. “Obviously, I know I wasn’t any better, but I was definitely the more realistic of the two of us.”

Then he growls, rubbing the heel of his palm into his cheek, smearing dirt everywhere. “Dammit, Oikawa.”

And Tooru can’t help it, his body seemingly moving of its own volition—just coming back here always brings the King close to the surface, his memories, his feelings and instincts, and just hearing his Knight talk like this, like he finally remembers _him_ , only serves to pull him closer to the forefront of his mind because that’s _his_ Knight, his Hajime—he steps out from behind the tree, and says from some place deep inside himself, “Even with all of that, I still regret sending you out to your death so unprepared.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Back to Iwaizumi's POV!

“Even with all of that, I still regret sending you out to your death so unprepared.”

Hajime nearly chokes on his spit when he hears the voice behind him, his head whipping around, his hand going to his side for a sword he has never actually carried, but it’s only Oikawa.

Wait… what?

“What are you doing here?” He asks, but he’s pretty sure he already knows the answer.

Oikawa waves his hand. “I followed you.”

Hajime stares at him for a second, because it’s Oikawa, but it’s also not, something’s off, and then he gets it—it’s the King too, hidden in the rigid formality in his spine as he comes closer, the firm set of his mouth, the way his shadow flickers ominously behind him. He stands up and crosses his arms, uncaring to the dirt coating his skin and clothes, relief at not being the only one aware of everything, that he’s _not_ crazy, and suspicion warring in his gut. “How long have you known?”

“Known about you or about everything else?” He asks back, stopping a few feet from him.

“Both.”

“Well, I’ve only known about you for, oh,” Oikawa pulls out his phone, glancing at it before shrugging, his other hand on his hip, “about an hour, if that? As for everything else, I remembered it all three years ago.”

Hajime breathes in deeply, rearranging the pieces into a puzzle he had thought he’d already solved ages ago. “So that’s why you were being so weird.” He furrows his brows, one piece refusing to slot into place. “What happened to me isn’t the same as what happened to you though.”

“I’m not entirely sure what all you went through, but it doesn’t seem like we did, no.” Oikawa smiles ruefully, pocketing his phone again. “Perks of being a demon in a past life, I guess.”

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” Hajime demands, his surprise and relief igniting into anger, fueled by all the frustration and stress he’s been feeling these past couple months. He could have helped Oikawa with all of that awful stuff, been a confidant for something no one else would have believed (because Hajime would have believed him, or at the very least accepted that it was something that affected Oikawa in such a way because _he_ believes it was real. He could have listened and offered security, could have helped him carry the weight of another existence on his shoulders). He could have told Oikawa when it started happening to him too. He’s sure it would have helped, for both of them, having someone there.

Oikawa raises his hands in supplication, coming even closer until there is barely a foot between them. Hajime can’t help but sway closer, looking up at his captain, his friend, his King. “I didn’t want to rush you,” he whispers. “What if you thought I was lying or crazy of something? I wasn’t going to risk fucking everything up on the off chance saying something helped you remember.”

“But you had to go through all of that alone.”

“So did you.”

“That’s not the point!” Frustration bubbles in his stomach, and he grinds his teeth together, his mouth bunching up. “This isn’t about me—”

“It’s always about you though, for me at least,” Oikawa interrupts, stating it like it’s simple, obvious. His face has gone intense, his attention sharp and cutting, some banked power flaring bright like embers in his eyes. Hajime scrunches his face up, a protest lingering on his lips, but he doesn’t get the chance to say anything. “I burned away several kilometers worth of land when I found you that day. It was uninhabited, but that didn’t matter to me. I would have killed everyone in the Kingdom if it could have brought you back, even if you wouldn’t forgive me for it,” he admits quietly, his face crumpling slightly.

“Oikawa—”

The brunette shakes his head, finally just yanking him into his arms and burying his face into the hollow of Hajime’s neck, shivering like it’s winter and not the beginnings of summer. Hajime knows a lot of this is blowback from the King, strong residual feelings he must have carried for years after his Knight had died, so he lets that part of himself do what it wants, what the Knight must want, and runs his hand through Oikawa’s hair, gentle and reassuring, using the other to keep him close, helping him weather the tremors quaking through him.

There’s still something that’s bothering him though, something he can’t explain, but that he has the vaguest idea that the Knight might have had the answer to. He can’t parse that out though, so after a few minutes, he carefully eases Oikawa back enough to see his face and asks, “Tooru—how did this happen?”

He doesn’t bother elaborating, the setter and the King both have always been able to read him and follow his logic, more or less. “I had planned on asking you the day we finished the funerary temple, but I got scared, and then I just never got around to it. I think you knew though, that you were just waiting for me to ask.”

“Ask what? Tooru, what are you talking about?”

He shakes his head, his gaze turning less distant as Oikawa works his way back out of the King’s influence. After a second, he clears his throat. “The Grand King had chaos magic, and that kind of power usually reflects itself best in destruction,” he says, sounding tired. “But it has a more complex side as well when it’s directed properly instead of let loose in one fell swoop the way it was on that hillside. When paired with a little blood, it becomes even more potent, even more powerful. Blood magic always is. Take this clearing, for example.”

Oikawa throws his arms out in a broad gesture. “When mixed with his blood and a few choice symbols, this clearing has stood the test of time and human industrialization for centuries, the spell protecting the area while redirecting any malicious intent.”

“But not weather?”

“Weather has no intent. Neither does nature. It just is, so there’s no way to really protect against it.”

That sort of makes sense. He nods.

“With the help of his trusty dark wizard, the King managed to come up with a spell. It took months to perfect, but see, the King was stubborn and understandably motivated for this particular spell to work properly, so time wasn’t an issue, except for how it was.”

“What kind of spell was it?”

“A binding spell.”

Hajime takes a small step backwards, his forehead wrinkling as he tries to wrap his head around what that would even mean. “So, what, the King bound us together?”

“Not us, the Knight and the King,” he corrects, and then he bites his lip. “Specifically, their souls.”

“What?!” Hajime asks, voice higher than before. He would have thought he wouldn’t be so shocked at hearing that, especially considering all of the other mind blowing things he’s heard today alone, but he is. Whoever heard of anything like a soul bond outside of fiction? But that part of him that can only be the Knight twinges, like it understands.

“When the Knight was dying on that hillside, the King decided the possibility that it would work outweighed the risk of failure, so he pumped chaotic energy into a sigil he’s drawn on the Knight’s chest in his own blood.” Oikawa looks away. “He couldn’t be sure if it would work—it wasn’t exactly something he could try on other people, this was his soul after all, and if he was binding it to anyone’s, it was to the man who already had the rest of him—but he wasn’t about to do nothing, to let his Knight leave him forever. He wasn’t going to let death stop him either.”

“Oikawa.”

“He was going to ask him for permission, you know, the day they finished the funerary temple, but he chickened out. I think the Knight always knew though, and I think the King knew his Knight had already accepted his offer without him even asking. Asking would have just been a courtesy at that point, polite but unnecessary. If he hadn’t, I don’t think he would have done it, no matter how much he wanted to.” Oikawa shrugs somewhat helplessly, somewhat defensively, compulsively picking at the hem of his shirt.

Hajime rubs at his temples, trying to process all of this new information. “So what does that even mean? For us, specifically?”

“I’m not sure. Besides remembering parts of their lives, I think it was just about being connected in a way that would ensure we would always find each other,” he says, “that we’d always end up in the same place, eventually.”

“But we’re not them, even if we look a lot like them—we’re different.”

“Of course.”

“But how does that even work?”

Here, Oikawa’s face shifts into an expression of fond exasperation. “I don’t know, Hajime. I’m not exactly an expert. Maybe souls don’t recycle exactly the same?”

Hajime’s face twists, a headache pulsing behind his eyes. Agh, it’s like thinking about time travel: confusing as hell and hard to reconcile. He suddenly thinks back to the people he’s seen, the flashes of those past lives, of Hinata’s cape fluttering out behind him as he spiked the ball and the two wizards in Tokyo.

“Do any of the others remember?” He asks.

“Not that I know of.”

“Huh.”

“I think it’s the bond, more than anything.” Oikawa looks at him for a second, then he reaches for him, this time tentative and careful. He goes willingly, of course, there was never any doubt that he wouldn’t, every part of him accepting and happy to be closer, brushing his hands down the smooth curve of his sides to palm at his hips.

“Is this part of the bond too?” He asks gruffly, because fuck, part of him doesn’t like the idea of being forced to feel a certain way, but another part of him thinks it’s probably just destiny. No matter who he is or what life he leads, he’ll always love this perfect idiot.

Oikawa doesn’t even have to ask, just looks into Hajime’s eyes, before a smile bursts into life on his face. Hajime’s heart stutters in his chest. Fuck, he loves it when he smiles.

Oikawa shakes his head, his cheeks turning red. “From what I remember, a binding spell can’t force you to feel anything.”

He nods, giddy because shit, he thinks he can have this. He smiles too and he presses even closer, their chests touching, their hearts beating together like reunited friends. His hands fit there in the curve of Oikawa’s spine, perfect puzzle pieces, and Oikawa’s fit him the same, his hands cradling his skull, his thumbs digging into the hollow at the base. With the look of affection softening his face, by the way he just melts into Hajime’s arms like all he needs is him, Hajime is the surest he’s ever been that he feels the same. And sure, he could just haul him into a hug and then make some stupid joke, keep dancing around this because of the faint possibility that Oikawa might say no after all, despite all of the compelling evidence to the contrary. But Hajime tries not to make a habit of hurting or lying to himself when it comes to things that he really cares about, and he’s wanted Tooru for basically his entire life, in some form or another.

So he slowly leans in, giving Oikawa more than enough time to pull away, just in case he’s wrong (and if he does that, Hajime doesn’t know what he’d do, fuck), but the setter doesn’t. If anything, Oikawa can’t seem to help smiling more, happiness and some vague amount of relief brightening his features. Guess Oikawa had his doubts too, but please, considering the setter’s analytical mind, he should have known Hajime has always been a sure thing.

Their mouths are just barely touching when Oikawa suddenly tugs at his hair, murmuring, “You’re really dirty, Iwa-chan.”

And all Hajime can do is roll his eyes and groan and crash their mouths together because besides feeling like coming home, comfortable and welcoming and everything he’s ever wanted, it seems like a good way to get him to shut the hell up.

 

 

 

Later that night, Hajime curls further into Oikawa’s side, nosing into the warm hollow behind his ear, half-smiling at the way his hair tickles his nose. They’re in Hajime’s bed, wrapped up together, arms holding each other close, their legs tangled, their bodies pleated together so tightly it’s hard for Hajime to differentiate where he ends and Oikawa begins. Every once in awhile, he peppers a row of feather soft kisses along his jaw line until the setter giggles tiredly and turns his head for another slow, sweet kiss, dragging mouths and tongues until their lips tingle and chafe, until breaths hitch and heads spin because this is real and unfathomable and just feels so, so right.

Hajime is so happy he could burst from it.

They had come back from the field, their mouths raw and red after making out with a blind, overwhelming intensity, relief and pleasure in every kiss, their hands grabbing at each other wherever they could reach and holding on with bruising force. And it probably would have continued that way had Oikawa not backed off to take a deep breath and noticed the increasing number of dirt smears on his clothes and skin that Hajime’s hands were leaving.

“Agh! Iwa-chan, you even got it on my chest!” Oikawa had flailed, pushing Hajime away enough to sit up from the grassy bed they had collapsed onto when things had started heating up. His hair was a bird’s nest of leaves and grass from the collective effort of Hajime’s hands running through it and all the rolling around they had been doing, manhandling each other into whatever position suited them best at the time. The look of disgust on his face made Hajime smirk, and he leered playfully at Oikawa when he turned his petulant look at him, suggestively glancing at the dirty marks he’d left on the setter’s chest, his sides and hips, all just to get the brunette to blush and splutter a protest before huffing in frustration and demanding they go home and shower. Now.

They’d pulled their shirts back on and tried to make themselves more presentable for the train ride home, though with little effect, and Hajime couldn’t help but flush and laugh at the two hand prints on the seat of Oikawa’s pants as they were leaving.

(Oikawa, embarrassed but still floating on cloud nine, bore the marks with dignity, a little complaining, and whispered dirty talk that left Hajime self-conscious and wanting the whole ride home, the conniving fucker.)

Hajime’s mother had greeted them with dinner when they’d finally stumbled in, Oikawa clutching at one of Hajime’s belt loops and grinning like an idiot (Hajime was hardly any better though, honestly). And after eating and showering, they’d fallen into bed to kiss some more, exploring every hidden nook, dipping into every crevice, over the corners of mouths, the grooves of teeth, everything simultaneously familiar and so, so new.

Sleep was a needy mistress though, and it wasn’t long before they’d eased up, shifting into more comfortable positions, their fingers tangled on the soft curve of Oikawa’s stomach.

“You know, they say moles are the scars of the fatal wounds received in past lives,” Oikawa says, offhandedly, fumbling his fingers over where the mole on Hajime’s side is.

Hajime blinks sleepily, murmurs, “Is that so?”

“Mhm.”

Thinking about it, Oikawa sure has a lot of moles—suddenly more awake, Hajime asks, “What happened to him?” Because some part of him is curious, and another is about ready to rip the covers off to count how many the setter actually has. Oh fuck—what if the King had died in a barrage of arrows or something because Hajime wasn’t there to protect him? Or what if he suffered from multiple stab wounds, Caesar style? Or—

“The Grand King outlived his Knight by several decades, and the unified Kingdom experienced the prosperity and peace he and his Knight had been fighting for.” Oikawa grimaces, his hand tightening around Hajime’s, and Hajime could only imagine what the King would have been like, more distant and sad, probably lonely, not as prone to smiling, but still fighting the good fight and trying to live up to what the Knight had wanted despite the chaos in his blood. He wonders if the King could ever bring himself to visit the Knight’s grave after he was buried there, whether he visited every day or only once in awhile, if at all. “In hindsight, it wasn’t going to last, but he died before anything too serious broke out.”

There’s a pang in Hajime’s chest. “How did he—”

“Old age.”

“Oh.” Relief floods through him.

“And so,” Oikawa releases Hajime’s hand to wave his own, his voice like a storyteller, “he was buried beside his most trusted and beloved Knight. The few who knew about that place took care of it while they were alive, but it wasn’t long until the two of them and everything they had accomplished together fell into obscurity, the temple falling to ruin without anyone to take care of it.”

“That’s pretty sad,” Hajime says, relinking their hands together, tracing random patterns on Oikawa’s skin with his thumb.

“I mean, I think we’re a pretty good sign to the contrary,” he smiles, lopsided. “They can finally get their happily ever after through us.”

“Oh man, you moron.” Hajime pulls back enough to cover the setter’s face with his hands, flustered. “You’re a cheeseball! So lame. Why am I here?”

“Because you love me,” he says, beaming wide and bright, a softer kind of joy lurking in his eyes. He presses a lingering kiss to the corner of Hajime’s mouth.

“Agh.” A pause. “Yeah, lucky you.”

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa whines, jostling him and pouting.

“What, Idiotkawa?”

“Iwa-chan.”

“Trashykawa.”

“Ple-ase.”

“Fine,” he growls, grudgingly, everything burning. He will probably be red forever. “I love you.”

Then all the fucker does is hum, scratching at the back of Hajime’s neck with the hand not tangled with his own. Hajime gently head butts him after a few seconds of silence, but when that doesn’t get the wanted response, he starts nuzzling into his neck until he finally gives in, giggling, “I love you, too.”

And tomorrow, they will return to the field to work towards completing Hajime’s restoration project, getting closer and closer with every weed pulled, every flower planted and stone moved, leaving the two lighter and unrestrained after every visit. At a certain point, Hajime and Oikawa agree that they need a little more muscle to move those bigger stones, so the next time they head out, it’s with Matsukawa and Hanamaki in tow, their faces a mix of confused, exasperated, and fond when they finally stumble through the tree line into the clearing.

(“So, this is your little gardening project?” Matsukawa asks, leaning into Hanamaki’s hand when the light haired teen attempts to scrub off the dirt smudged on his cheek.

Hajime shrugs and grins, guilty as charged.

“Hey! Don’t leave me to do all the work, you lazy jerks. So cruel!”)

They finish it during the last week of school, and that night, they will light spicy smelling incense on the graves and offer good thoughts and hopes for the future, finally feeling unburdened by the knowledge they have of the lives they lived, whatever threads keeping them there severed because there is nothing more to do, to remember. They have each other, and that’s all they need.

In the weeks to come, they will graduate from high school and be teased by their friends because it’s not like they can hide their feelings, not now that they’re together.

(And of course, it’s Matsukawa and Hanamaki who win the betting lot, the motherfuckers, though at least they use their winnings for good and treat them to ramen.

“A toast,” Hanamaki says dramatically, “to the happy couple. We saw it coming from miles away even if these two idiots didn’t, but thank goodness they finally got their shit together so we can enjoy this wonderful meal.”

“Hear, hear!” Matsukawa nods, dabbing his fake tears with a napkin.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Hajime mutters good-naturedly, sharing a look with Oikawa and rolling his eyes.

They dig into the food, and for a moment, only the content sounds of their eating is heard, before:

“Remember that time Oikawa got hit in the face because he was staring at our Hajime’s bulging biceps?” Matsukawa asks through a mouthful of noodles.

Beside Hajime, Oikawa blushes red and chokes on his food, spluttering a weak protest. “It’s not like you guys don’t stare too!” he cries once he’s gotten his breath back. Matsukawa and Hanamaki shrug, unashamed, and Hajime laughs, delighted and flattered.

“Which time, Mattsun? You have to be clear. It’s happened more than once,” Hanamaki says. Then: “Oh, what about that time Hajime ogled our precious Captain’s ass?”

It’s Hajime’s turn to stammer and go red as their two friends laugh. Oikawa, hanging off his arm, demands in a teasing and playful voice, “Is that true, Iwa-chan?”)

And they’ll stress out about university (can they make long distance work? When will they be able to see each other? What can they afford?), but they figure things out, more or less. They’ll find other ways to spend their time together, watching movies and going out on dates in their free time and figuring out all the ways they can make each other moan and tremble and come, mouths and hands eager and wanting to please (not all the stuff from their collective memories works, but a good deal does, much to Oikawa’s amusement). They’ll fight and fuck and kiss and make up and enjoy this life that they will carefully build together. And all the while, once a year, they’ll visit that clearing where it all began, getting closer and closer to that happily ever after.

But first:

“Seriously though, Shittykawa. Not even a hint or anything? I thought I was going crazy!”

“I mean, you have to be pretty crazy to get involved with me.”

“…Shut up.”

 

 

 

_“We’ll always be together, right?” the King asks, his head resting on the Knight’s stomach, content and warm in the sunlight streaming through the trees._

_“Of course. Even if you are an idiot.” The Knight snorts and strokes his fingers through the King’s hair, a smile lurking in the corner of his mouth._

_“So cruel, Iwa-chan!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr here: http://slothy-girl.tumblr.com/
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
